


Road of Ruins

by momotastic, whimsycatcher



Series: Road to Nowhere [1]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Mad Max Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Demisexual Arthur, Disabled Character, Forced Pregnancy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Misogyny, Murder, Quests, Ritual Sex, Sex Magic, Sexism, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Violence, Slavery, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Rape/Non-con, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-18 15:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 72,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11877300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momotastic/pseuds/momotastic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher
Summary: Emrys, he whose power is greater than any before him, shall return magic to its rightful place. At his side will fight a man born from pain, raised in blood, then cast away. With hair as bright as gold, and an arm like a forged weapon the likes of which haven’t been seen in centuries, the Mother will have a warrior to fight for her life’s blood. Together they shall bring peace and prosperity to Gaia once more.Arthur has no doubt that he's the Warrior from the prophecy. With the help of Uther's prized wives, he ventures North to find Emrys, and to return magic to the land that his father killed.





	1. Camelot

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who helped me bring this story to life, but especially Tari_Sue, Christina, and sara_bocchan. Without you, I would've perished along the way, along with this fic.
> 
> Whimsy, it was an absolute delight to work with you and I couldn't have asked for a better collab partner.
> 
> For complete notes, acknowledgements and thank yous, from whimsycatcher and myself, please check the next parts in this series.
> 
> * * *
> 
> You can download this story as [PDF](http://momotastic.parakaproductions.com/ACBB%202017/Road%20of%20Ruins.pdf) (right click, save as). Unfortunately, I fail at compiling epub and mobi files :/.
> 
> * * *
> 
> If you're one of the few people who hasn't seen Fury Road yet but still wants to: This fic might spoil you for some plot points in that movie, however the reverse is not necessarily true. Having said that, you can read this fic without ever watching the movie, there's no prior knowledge required.
> 
> * * *
> 
> If you would like more information about the warnings, or any untagged established or going to be established pairings, check the notes at the end of this story. Beware: There be mild spoilers. I have added additional chapter warnings at the beginning/end of every chapter
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **A quick note about how best to view this story:** It is highly recommended that you leave the Creator's Style turned ON if you're reading this story online.
> 
> If you want to download this fic as pdf to read on your e-reader/tablet/just to store for safety: There's a link a little further up in this note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warnings for the first chapter are: non-consensual branding and non-consensual tattooing. See notes at the end of this chapter for more details. (beware: spoilers)

Artwork by [whimsycatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher), rebloggable on [tumblr](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/165458922678).

It’s the dust that’s the worst. It gets everywhere, every crevice, every pore. Merlin thinks he’s starting to sweat dirt and bleed grime. Not that he’s doing much sweating, dehydrated as he is most days. The little bit of water he manages to scrounge up whenever he passes a settlement is just about enough to keep him alive. He hasn’t washed in… years, probably. His hair’s a thick black mat, his beard’s just as bad.

He’s watching the sun go down over the hill that used to be a forest. It’s long since dried up, burned down, crumbled to ash. Nothing survives in this land anymore. Albion’s cursed, and no one will admit it but they all know who’s killed the world.

_Merlin!_

_Run, boy!_

_Merlin!_

Merlin almost spits into the sand, then thinks better of it and swallows the little bit of saliva that pooled in his mouth. Don’t waste any fluids. Don’t want to have to drink his own urine again, after all. Not as long as he can still find settlements that have a water source, thin as it usually is. If the taste won’t do him in, then kidney failure will.

_Merlin!_

**_Merlin!_ **

**_MERLIN!_ **

He shakes his head, attempting to dislodge the memory of his mother’s cries. They always follow him, no matter where he goes. In a way, it’s almost as if she were still alive. As if she were here with him.

If only she didn’t sound so agonised every time she calls out to him.

Merlin tries to remember what her voice sounded like when she laughed, called his name affectionately. Sometimes, when he’s lucky enough to dream nicely, he sees her smiling face, hears her chiding him for some kind of prank he played on the other children in the village.

He always wakes up from these dreams sobbing drily. His body doesn’t have enough water left to grant him tears, and in a way, Merlin’s glad for that small mercy.

_Merlin!_

He sighs, and looks back out over the hill. That’s when he hears the noises of engines. They sound much too close, and Merlin curses himself for getting lost in his mind to the point where he stopped paying attention to his surroundings.

He grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. In seconds he’s got his goggles on and starting his bike. It’s noisy, but it’s the only way of escape he has. In this wasteland, there’s nowhere he can hide.

The bike starts, thank fuck, and he’s off, leaving deep scores in the dirt and a cloud of dust as he speeds away through the valley. If he’s lucky he’ll outrun them. If not… well.

Merlin’s practised at navigating hard, dry ground. It’d be more difficult if it were sandy or even slick. The downside is that his pursuers have just as easy a time following him. The ground’s perfect for vehicles and Merlin’s bike isn’t the fastest even if he could run it on something better than human waste fumes or scrounged up, impure gasoline.

He’s checking the cracked mirror to see how close the cars have come when it happens. With his eyes off of the path for just a second, the front wheel hits a large rock and sends Merlin flying. He distantly hears the bike roaring and then crashing to the ground, and then there’s nothing for a second while his vision blacks out upon impact with the ground.

It’s a small mercy that he didn’t break his neck. When his pursuers catch up to him a moment later, though, Merlin almost wishes he had. His head’s swimming and he feels woozy as they haul him up and drag him into the boot of their car. The space reeks of piss and vomit and the coppery scent of dried blood. Merlin’s almost glad he loses consciousness the moment the hood slams down and darkness engulfs him – both physically and mentally.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed but he’s woken by a sharp pain on his chest. It only takes him a few seconds to realise that struggling isn’t doing much because his hands and feet are bound tightly, spreading him across a hard surface. There’s something vile stuffed into his mouth, something that tastes of sweat, blood and dirt. Bile rises in Merlin’s throat and it takes all of his self-control not to throw up into his mouth and suffocate himself.

Merlin’s breathing frantically through his nose, eyes darting everywhere. He sees a bunch of faces, none of them familiar.

 _They wouldn’t be_ , he thinks. He doesn’t have any real enemies, only people he’s met on the road, whom he’s helped. He remembers their faces, those of the ones he couldn’t save. Anyone Merlin’s ever hated or fought against is either dead or much, much further away from here.

These people are strangers and he has no idea why they’ve caught him.

Except. He does.

He knows the stories about the _Devils of Camelot_. Men who’ll steal healthy girls and boys, women and men and drag them back to their citadel. The boys are forged into soldiers, the men taken for their blood to make the sick, inbred population better.

And the girls…

Merlin screams into the gag, forcing his mind away from what he knows happens to girls and women in this place. What would have happened to his mother if she hadn’t—

It’s a fate worse than the one that awaits anyone with even the faintest traces of magic. At least those poor people will die a more or less swift death on the pyre. They only have to suffer until the smoke suffocates them.

At the moment Merlin isn’t sure whether he’s glad that his magic has gone dormant or not. If they knew what he is – was – _is_ , they’d never let him live.

The pain on his chest stops and someone’s wiping a rough cloth over the sore skin. He can’t raise his head very high but now that the panic is slowly subsiding he can tell that someone’s wiping blood off of him, while holding a tattooing machine in their other hand.

His head’s yanked back and then someone puts shears to his hair. Within moments Merlin can feel cool air on his scalp but the feeling only lasts a second before sticky hands grab his skull and hold him fast while someone takes scissors to his beard, cutting it down far enough so that they can take a razor to the rest.

As much as Merlin’s longed for a shave and a haircut, he’d much rather have his thick mat of hair back if only it meant that he was still free.

It’s pathetic how little he can do. He was able to levitate objects around the room before he could walk, and now he’s weak and helpless, trapped in the middle of a group of men who leer at him. Merlin supposes he ought to be grateful that all he can see in their eyes is bloodlust and greed that has nothing to do with sexual desires. It makes him shiver all the same.

Two big guys release the binds on Merlin’s left arm and leg, and roughly turn him onto his front. His chest flares with pain when it scrapes against the raw skin of the fresh tattoo.

It’s nothing against what comes next. Merlin smells the hot iron as his head is forced down. There’s heat on the back of his neck for a moment, and then Merlin screams into the gag until he passes out from the stink of burnt flesh, and the pain.

Artwork by [whimsycatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher), rebloggable on [tumblr](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/165458922678).

Uther’s always been a fair ruler. Ruthless and strict, yes, but fair.

The old government, the one in power over two decades ago, was weak. They let the sorcerers run free, let them wreak havoc. They should’ve thanked Uther for purging the land.

Not that they stayed alive long enough to do it.

George settles the breastplate over Uther’s chest and fastens it tightly. The armour of heavy, polished steel that gleams in the sunshine has sat in Uther’s ancestral home for centuries. He’s kept it clean and functional until the day he could put it on, step outside, and slay those who’ve soiled the land with all their esoteric waste, their magical remedies and fairy dust.

They tried to stop him, of course, but by the time any of them noticed what he was doing, Uther was already Prime Minister, the King a useless puppet on a string for him. It was so easy to get the government to do what he wanted. He only had to influence enough of the population and just like that, all the elected representatives caved and did what Uther proposed because they were a democracy and that’s what the people of Albion wanted.

Uther smiles as George helps him into the vambraces. The people are all sheep. They need a strong ruler like Uther. Someone to give them structure and discipline. Someone to get rid of the plague that are sorcerers.

Twenty years later and Uther still has most of the country well in hand. People flock to Camelot’s citadel, an abandoned castle south-west of their old capital London. Uther bought it long before the purge, rebuilt it before resources became sparse, and now, while most of the country’s dry, this place is brimming with life. He’s spent a lot of money and resources on digging deep wells and set up an intricate canal system to grow all that they could possibly need to survive. The population came to him, to his Camelot, because they knew they’d get water and food here. As more and more of the world outside of Camelot died, Uther watched as his empire slowly grew.

And he’s not done yet. Albion’s under his control, and it won’t take long until he can take his army and march across the dried up canal to the mainland and take all of them. He knows the continent’s dying as much as Albion is. Uther will be their saviour, the one to deliver them from famine.

His empire will be boundless, and one day – one day – he’ll have a son to inherit it all. A son who’ll know how to be strong, and to do what’s necessary — unlike the one Uther tries never to think of. A weakling like that, who wouldn’t do as he was told, could never be Uther’s son.

George fastens Uther’s sword to his belt and steps away. Clad in armour, sword at his side and long red cloak flowing behind him, Uther steps out onto the balcony of his castle to greet the crowd of people who’ve come to see their King, their Emperor – their _Saviour_.

The cab of the truck is familiar like his own bed – well, cot. Arthur knows every nook and cranny of it, knows how all of the scratch marks got there, remembers when the tears in the seat cushions happened, mended them as best he could.

It might be dirty with dust and machine oil, but neither can be avoided in this world they live in, are dying in.

He pulls the door open and swings himself into the driver’s seat. The wheel’s engraved with a running horse, mane and tail flowing in the wind. Arthur’s seen horses when he was small, and he’s seen parts of cars with the same plaque. He knows the wheel came from a car brand called Mustang. It makes him smile to think of his truck as a big war horse taking him places he could never go on his own two legs.

Arthur runs the fingers of his left hand over the horse, then touches them to his grease-blackened forehead as if in prayer. To an outsider it’ll look like he’s showing devotion to Uther who’s droning on about honour and privilege. In truth, Arthur’s asking for help to make it through the day alive.

‘Believe in Emrys,’ Gaius had said. ‘Find him, and you will find the future of this world.’

Well, Arthur was certainly going to try.

There were days, years ago, when he would’ve done the opposite. Days when he still called Uther “father”, and when he thought he could do what Uther wanted without complaint.

It all shattered around him when he was pushed into a room, at its centre a large bed that looked cleaner and more comfortable than anything Arthur had seen in years. And on the bed a girl, probably even younger than Arthur was at the time. He’d just turned fifteen, his father had been in power for almost ten years, and Albion had been truly and entirely dead for six.

The girl burst into tears the moment she saw him and Arthur quickly rushed over to see if she was hurt. She flinched away from him, and the clanking sound of chains caught Arthur’s attention. She was chained to the bed at her left ankle.

Arthur swallowed thickly. He’d had some inkling about what he was in for when Uther had beamed at him and promised a present that would make a man out of him. Arthur’d heard people talk about sex, and he’d heard the screams of Uther’s _wives_.

Another sob, another whimper from the girl on the bed. She had long, dark hair falling in soft waves around her face. Her skin was pale and perfect. Arthur had never seen anyone or anything as pretty as her.

Later he learned that her name was Mithian, she was fourteen, and the daughter of a politician who’d opposed Uther before he gained complete power.

Even to this day Arthur can’t forgive himself for not making sure she’d be safe. All he’d thought back then was that he didn’t want to do that to her. He didn’t want to do to her what Uther did to all the healthy women and girls that were brought to Camelot.

But because Arthur wouldn’t even pretend to use her, Uther finally took matters into his own hand. Arthur was forced to watch and he never took his eyes off Mithian whose face, after screaming for Uther to stop, for Arthur to help, had finally become blank as if she wasn’t even there anymore.

She’d stopped eating after that, and died not too long after. It was Arthur who found her, and when he challenged Uther, questioned him in front of others, it was also Arthur who was whipped until his back was nothing more than a bloody pulp.

Arthur knew that through all of this, his suffering was nothing compared to that of Mithian or any other woman brought to Camelot.

The only reason Arthur wasn’t killed ten years ago was so Uther could make an example of him. He was stripped of all the privileges being Uther’s son brought with it, and instead put to work. He became a driver and while he made plans, looked for escape routes and strategies, he slowly, carefully rose through the ranks far enough to become head of transport and trade. He’s sure that, at this point, not even Uther himself remembers that Arthur used to call him father – and Arthur wanted it that way. It made what he was doing today much easier if Uther forgot about him.

He swallows, shaking himself out of the memory. It’s almost time to leave for the Petrol Master’s farm, and it’s only a moment later when the horn blows to signal that the convoy’s dismissed. Arthur starts the engine of the truck, taking comfort and strength from the deep rumbling and vibrations.

As he steers the truck out of the courtyard and onto the road, Arthur smiles grimly to himself. Today, he goes free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: Merlin is captured and forcefully branded with a hot iron brand, and tattooed against his will.


	2. Off-Track

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings: implied necrophilia, non-consensual blood donation, disfiguration, past self-harming. See notes at the end of this chapter for more details. (beware: spoilers)

The drive to the Oil Farm is short, only a few kilometres from Camelot and all across low terrain. Which means that Arthur has to pray harder for Uther to be distracted enough that he won’t notice right away when Arthur, instead of cutting directly across the dirt, takes the convoy onto the old road heading North-West. With any luck, Uther will think that his useless, disowned flesh and blood got his orders wrong and is taking the convoy to Amata and the Sarrum.

With no luck, Uther will be suspicious, and send more Devils after them.

Arthur keeps his eyes on the track, and when it’s time to go off road, he simply doesn’t. Some of the vehicles in front of him turn and speed up to get ahead of him again, and one of the Devils accompanying him climbs down to the cabin to ask what the orders are.

“We’re heading North,” he says, because what else is there to say?

_‘I’m going to Avalon, to find Emrys, to defeat Uther, and to bring back magic and life to this country.’_

Not likely.

The Devil disappears again, presumably to give new orders to the rest of the convoy. Arthur hopes they can keep it up for a bit longer. It’s not unusual for Uther to send out vehicles to distant regions for fresh blood. It _is_ usual for him to send Arthur, or a big truck like this one, though.

_I’m going to Avalon. I’ll find Emrys. We’ll defeat Uther. We’ll bring back magic. The world will live again._

He thinks it like it’s a mantra.

No, not _like_ one. It _is_ a mantra.

Arthur’s lived for this moment for over a year. It’s been 389 days since Gaius admitted to Arthur that there was a prophecy that said someone called Emrys is destined to bring back magic, but he’d need help.

_A man born from pain, raised in blood, then cast away._

Arthur figured that this could just about mean anyone living in this time. They’re all cast-aways, living in blood and pain. Anyone born after Arthur has suffered since they took their first breath.

Gaius once told him about how Uther came into power. After his wife died in childbirth – Arthur’s birth – Uther went beserk. He hid them well from the world, his true goals. And then came the day when Uther went from Uther Pendragon to Emperor Pendragon, and the world changed completely. With the land dying, and the population hitting an all-time low on birth rates because not only the land but its people, too, have lost almost all fertility, they’ve all been brought up in pain to live a half-life at best.

Which means: This all is essentially his fault. His mother died because of him – it’s the one lesson that Uther taught him that stuck – and because of her death, the world has to suffer now.

Most anyone born before Uther’s Purge has since fallen ill or already died. Or they’ve starved to death. Actually, it’s more likely they’ve died from thirst. The water went first, and with it the farms. Then came the hunger – food reserves only last for so long, after all.

The few babies that get to see the light are often sick and half dead before they take their first breath. Often they miss limbs or are gravely diseased. It’s not the miracle of life that Arthur’s read about in his books when Uther still cared about Arthur’s education.

And with the dwindling population, Uther has taken it upon himself to collect the most beautiful, healthy women of the country and force himself on them. He’d called it “securing the prosperity and continuation of the Pendragon line”. Arthur just called it rape.

The first and only time he said that to Uther’s face, he came away with a torn up back — and a missing arm.

Which is why there’s no doubt that it’s him who has to go and find Emrys, because sure enough, there was more to the damn prophecy. If it had only been the whole “born from pain” bit, Arthur would’ve told Gaius to keep looking elsewhere for his warrior, because that description fit nearly everyone in this day and age.

_With hair as bright as gold, and an arm like a forged weapon the likes of which haven’t been seen in centuries, the Mother will have a warrior to fight for her life’s blood._

It’s no small irony that the prosthesis Arthur got, after his right shoulder had healed enough to contemplate it, is made of light but durable steel, and hides a sharp blade that extends when Arthur moves his fingers the right way. Add to that that he deliberately named it after the ancient, fabled weapon of Excalibur, that was said to have slain all evil in the land once upon a time… Well. He supposes the shoe of the golden haired warrior might fit him well enough to go on this quest. In any case, he _wanted_ to go. If he’s able to find Emrys and help him topple Uther off his throne, Arthur will do everything in his power to make it happen.

The moment reports come in that Arthur has taken the convoy off track, Percy knows today is the day. Uther curses loudly, then runs as fast as his aging legs carry him through the castle, Percy right behind him.

He was born in Camelot, not long after the purge, when the rate of babies born – and surviving – was still relatively high, and when only every third baby was born with a disability or a disease.

His mother didn’t survive the birth, someone had later told Percy, and his father died when Percy was only a year old. Percy believes this to be true, if only so he doesn’t have to consider that maybe they were killed for trying to leave Camelot when Uther’s cruelty became worse and worse.

Percy grew up with other orphans – too many of them to be a coincidence – and they underwent strict disciplinary training. Percy was by far the biggest and strongest child, and as soon as he turned sixteen, when he was almost as tall as Uther himself, was separated from the others to receive further training.

He was seventeen when they made him Uther’s personal guard, less than three years ago, and with every day that passes, Percy hates Uther more and more.

They reach the steel door that’s as thick as a wall up on the battlements, and holds more locks, security codes and trappings than any other place in the castle. Uther’s practised in opening it. After all, he does it every day, once he’s completed his “court sessions”, as Uther calls them. In truth, they’re nothing but posturing for the masses to keep them docile like a herd of sheep. As long as Uther appears on the balcony every morning and talks about what a great country they have, the people are appeased that someone’s still in charge. They’re reassured that they don’t have to think for themselves, or consider the fact that it was the very same man who’s now promising absolution and reparation to the land’s depleted resources who killed it in the first place.

Uther’s angry shout is audible from inside the room, but as long as he’s not calling Percy’s name or the codeword, Percy isn’t allowed to enter. He stands guard outside whenever Uther goes in. Percy isn’t even allowed to look at Uther or the door when Uther enters – not that he doesn’t know how to open the door anyway. After all, it was he who told Arthur how to get inside.

Behind that steel door lies the room that holds Uther’s most precious treasures, his wives.

Percy can hear more of Uther’s shouting inside, presumably directed at the old woman that lives in the room with the wives. Arthur couldn’t have taken her with them, worried that she’d slow them down if they had to continue on foot. Her name is Alice, Percy knows. Being at Uther’s side whenever the man’s awake ensures that Percy knows far more than anyone would give him credit for.

He was a quiet child, and his teachers all considered him to be of simple mind. In their eyes, he was the best candidate for Uther’s guard, not just because of his built and strength, but also because they thought he wasn’t smart enough to cause trouble. They thought he’d be the perfect soldier – strong, blindly following orders, and too stupid to think for himself.

Their misconception is Percy’s greatest advantage. He played up the image they’ve placed upon him, and in return, he’s privy to almost every conversation Uther has. The only time Uther leaves his sight is when he’s with the wives, and even then Uther won’t stop bragging about it afterwards.

During those times, Percy’s desire to just shoot Uther in the head is greatest, and he hates himself more every day that passes and he doesn’t do it, subjecting the wives to more suffering as a direct consequence. Percy knows only too well what it is that happens in that room. If Uther’s stories weren’t bad enough, he can hear the screams and sobs from the women while he waits outside. He hates himself for it, but he’s glad he’s never allowed to go into the room.

“Where are they? Who’s taken them?” Uther yells, but Alice says nothing.

“Answer me!” Uther demands, and the woman remains silent. Percy has met her once. She has a kind but sad smile, and eyes that have seen many terrible things.

A long moment of silence stretches, and then Alice says: “You’ll never hurt them again. Arthur will make sure of it.”

A shot rings out, a broken noise no human being should be capable of making, and then the thud of a body falling to the floor. Percy closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, forcing himself to breathe deeply and quiet, the rage filling his head.

When Uther returns, Percy receives orders to send the maids in to return the room to its proper state. Bile rises in Percy’s throat, thick and sour, and he has to swallow a few times to keep from vomiting. He accepts the order – what else is he going to do? – and goes to find the woman who’s in charge of the maids. He hates every word that comes out of his mouth as he tells her to go into the harem and clean up the body and the blood, and to make sure the room is clean and ready for the return of Uther’s wives.

The look she gives him is filled with hatred, but what she says is “As the Emperor commands.”

Percy wishes her glares would give him real wounds, but of course nothing of the sort happens, magic is long dead and looks are only that – looks. He turns away and rejoins Uther who’s already giving orders for a large pursuit. Uther himself will ride out with them, and Percy has no choice but to follow.

One day, he tells himself, one day he’ll have the chance to escape, to do his part to stop Uther. If he could be sure that no other dictator would take over, he would have killed Uther in his sleep the first day Percy had been given this position. As it stands, there are too many warlords waiting in line, each of them biding their time for the day that Uther dies without an heir.

So Percy keeps his mouth shut and plays the mindless musclehead – and stays close to the Emperor in the meantime, better to have prime position to slit his throat when the moment arrives.

The air in the barracks is stale with sweat and dead air. The prosperity of the fields of green that surround the castle don’t extend to the camp where the Devils live. The trees aren’t for the Emperor’s soldiers, they’re for those who pay Uther enough to earn his favour.

Elyan’s dark skin is sticky with dried sweat and dirt. Some days he forgets why he’s going through all of this. Why he obeys orders to kill innocent people because they’re too weak to work, and why he doesn’t fight back anymore when he’s told to bring a particularly beautiful girl back to the citadel while her mother curses him and fights him all the way.

Some days he doesn’t even want to remember his name because the life he’s living could hardly be called that. Half-life, some people call it. They’re not wrong. It’s not life when you’re a slave to a cruel dictator who killed the world only so he could rule it. It’s not life when you despise your own being more and more with every day that passes.

Elyan would flee. Some days, when he forgets why he’s here, why he obeys, he’s close to running away consequences be damned. Better be killed by Uther’s men, or out in the desert land, than harm just one more person because he’s too weak to resist.

Some days he makes it as far as grabbing a wheel.

And then he remembers himself. Remembers his father. Remembers his sister. Remembers their mother.

Their mother, who protected him and Gwen against the Devils, even though both of them were already 16 years old, and Elyan had grown up strong and Gwen quick and feisty. Their mother, who died with a bullet in her head. Their mother, whose body was violated even after she’d gone cold.

Their father had been taken years before. It had been only the three of them since Elyan and Gwen were twelve. Elyan hasn’t seen him in the two years since he came to the citadel. He knows he’s here somewhere. He makes weapons for the Devils. Elyan wonders what they tell him to keep him compliant.

Maybe they say they’ll protect his wife and children in exchange for his services. Maybe they tell him they’ll provide food and water for his family as long as he keeps his head down and works and works and works. Maybe they didn’t promise him anything and he has even less choice in staying than Elyan does.

When he first came here, he searched for his father. He asked for a big, black man, a blacksmith. “His name’s Tom!” – “You think anyone’s got names around here?”

 _He might be dead_ , Elyan thinks some days. _Or he ran away and never came back to us._

Elyan doesn’t want to consider that his father fled and didn’t come back for them. He’s never thought of his father as cowardly. Not the man who offered himself in exchange for his wife and children. He wouldn’t risk escape and endanger them. He has to be here. _Or he’s dead._

The news of Arthur’s betrayal, the escape of the wives, ripple through the citadel, from one Devil to the next, and by the time it reaches Elyan, most of his company has already left to pursue the truck.

 _This is the day_ , Elyan thinks. Today he’ll leave. Wherever his father might be, alive or dead, Elyan can leave today because all that matters is that Gwen is gone.

Every time he was close to leaving, it was the knowledge that his sister was a captive of Uther that made him stay. He couldn’t abandon her when she suffered worse than Elyan on a daily basis.

He tries not to think about what she has to endure at Uther’s hands. And then he deliberately thinks about it because he might be a slave, forced to do things he never wanted, but at least he’s safe from the same fate that she has to endure every single day. He owes it to her to think about what she’s going through, and to make sure he never forgets the horrors that both of them were forced to witness after their mother lay dead on the floor, trousers around her ankles and tunic pushed up to her neck.

But now Gwen has escaped and he’ll never get a better chance of finding her and leaving this godforsaken place behind them for once and all.

He grabs his jacket, the only possession he has, and his cloak, because in a sea of Devils, the red cloak will give him anonymity. He’s halfway out of the barracks when he runs into Leon, a tall man with ginger fuzz covering his head, and thick scar tissue where his right eye should be. Elyan wonders, not for the first time, what the story is there, but he’s never asked.

“You heard,” Leon says, voice as quiet as he can make it to still be heard in the bustle of soldiers ready to storm out and recapture Emperor Pendragon’s _valuable possessions_.

Elyan nods. Leon knows about Gwen. He’s one of the few men Elyan trusts — more or less — around here. Elyan didn’t think he’d ever find anything remotely like allies in this place, but Leon is one of the few men who’s proven that he’s got a good heart. He’s not here by choice either, and he makes a point of never taking too much from anyplace they’re ordered to loot, always making sure the people living – existing – there have enough to survive.

“I’m leaving,” Elyan tells him just as quietly. He doesn’t say the words but his eyes are asking Leon to go with him.

It’s Leon’s turn to nod. “I know a way. And more who’ll take the chance, if you’ll accept company.”

Elyan considers it. He trusts Leon, at least enough to know that he wouldn’t endanger them by taking untrustworthy Devils with them. He inclines his head.

“Fifteen minutes, South Gate, don’t be late.”

“All available personnel are to go in immediate pursuit of rogue Devil by the name of Arthur. He has stolen valuable life cargo that needs to be returned unharmed to the Emperor. The rogue is to be brought back alive. Any means necessary to obtain that goal are acceptable.”

Will sits bolt upright on the uncomfortable cot. This is the chance he’s been waiting for for six years.

Six years in this hellhole – for what else could it be when it’s where the Devils dwell?

Six years with nothing but meagre rations, hard work in unforgiving conditions, doing things Will knows are bad but not as bad as what some of the others have to do. He only sits behind the wheel and drives while the others go out and “recruit”.

Will was recruited six years ago. Promises of a better life, of prosperity and the chance to return the country to its former greatness. The chance to make something of himself – to succeed where his father had failed, and protect the ones who’re important to him.

And look at where he is now. Stitched back together more times than he can count, and called lucky for it. Lucky, because many others have died where Will lived, thanks to sitting safely in the cabin of a car. He’s just the driver, and the worst that happens to him is a nasty flesh wound from splintering metal when one of Cenred’s gangs attacks them during patrol.

Which is what got him here. There’s a deep cut on his left shoulder that needed to be stapled shut. Will hates it when they have to use the stapler. The pain is worse than the cut itself, and it takes forever to heal. What’s worse, this time he lost enough blood to need a transfusion, which is why he’s still in the hospital wing when the order comes over the speakers.

“Hey, unhook me! I’ve got to go!” Will demands, already fiddling with the needle stuck in his forearm.

“The order said ‘available’,” Doc says with disinterest as he slices open a half-dead outsider to check for organs they can still use. Doc’s a middle aged man with limp brown hair and dull eyes. He’s as thin as a stick but his hands are strong. Will has seen him hold down struggling patients without so much as breaking a sweat.

“I’m available,” Will insists. “I’m as good as new.”

“Your shoulder is barely functional and your transfusion’s incomplete,” Doc replies calmly, and digs his hands deeper into the person’s chest. The person on the table opens their mouth as if to scream, but nothing comes out. Doc has a habit of cutting off people’s tongues or poking a hot iron down their throat to silence them. Will supposes he really doesn’t like it when they scream.

“Then I’ll take the donor,” Will pleads. “We’ll chain him up, nice and tight, mount him on the roof of my car, and I can go.”

Doc regards him thoughtfully, then shrugs. “Fine by me.”

Will pumps his fist into the air, and ignores the angry glare he receives from the donor. He’s used to looks like that. There aren’t many people Will gets along with in this godforsaken place, and impressing his donor is low on his list of priorities.

What’s high up is getting to Arthur before anyone else does. Six years is a long time but nobody holds a grudge like Will does. If it weren’t for that bloody bastard, Will’s life might be miserable, but at least he’d be free. Or dead. Which is preferable to what he’s got now anyway. Once he’s got his hands on Arthur, though, he’ll be done.

He’ll kill Arthur for making Will believe that there could be something better out here than what he had at home. Maybe his life had been shite six years ago, but at least he’d been free to go where he wanted and do as he pleased. Now he drives where his commanding officer tells him, and watches as the other Devils drag people into their cars to take them back to Camelot.

It’s all Arthur’s fault for convincing Will that becoming Uther’s lackey was better than living by himself out in the wasteland. It’s Arthur’s fault that Will hates who he’s become, and once Will gets his hands on Arthur, he’ll make him pay with _his_ life. And once that’s done, Will can finally let go and quit this miserable existence. Two birds, one stone. No more Arthur to fuck up more people’s lives, and no more Will to endure the consequences of disobeying the Emperor’s order. Win-win, as they say.

Now all he needs is his wheel, his car, and that donor strung up on the roof. He’ll set him free before he kills himself, Will decides. But only once Will is strong enough to reach his goal. Until then he’ll use this guy’s blood to prolong his own life just that much longer.

The question is whether they’re not better off taking bikes instead of a car.

Gwaine frowns at the junkyard where he, Lance, and Leon have been tinkering with the broken vehicles whenever they have some time to themselves. Gwaine’s reasonably sure that there’s at least one car that’s working well enough to get them out of here and a couple of bikes that are ready to go. None of them look all that great. The car’s more rust than anything else, and it barely has a driver’s seat left as far as upholstery goes, but it’ll easily carry four of them. The bikes aren’t in any better shape, with improvised saddles from old shovels and broken or missing headlights, but it’s better not to travel at night anyway.

Either option has its advantages and disadvantages. The car will raise less suspicion with the Devils, the bikes promise more flexibility, at least until they reach Cenred’s border if they’re going that way. The car offers slightly more protection against bullets, but the bikes are more manoeuvrable. They could, in theory, each load up their bike with as much stuff as they can manage, but given that they’re leaving in a hurry, there’s nothing to take anyway, so might as well take the car and be less conspicuous.

Gwaine sighs. Why couldn’t anyone have told him to prepare for an impromptu escape? The three of them have been fixing up cars and bikes for this eventuality, sure, but none of them had had concrete plans for an escape yet. Not that Gwaine’s going to miss his chance to disappear from the citadel in the tumult of what’s happening. It’s the perfect cover to finally get away from this life.

Twelve years is a bloody long time, after all. Especially when every day that you’re forced to go out and plunder settlements and kidnap women and men feels like an eternity. Gwaine hates himself for what he’s doing more than any person he’s ever had to hurt just to stay alive.

They’d been forced to go out with the Devils to patrol, raid camps, take prisoners… kill those who resist. But between himself, Lance, and Leon, they’d managed to minimise the damage that could’ve been done. Other Devils, those who think Uther’s the second coming of Christ – or would, if they knew about any religion other than what Uther preaches –  take pleasure in rooting out the “thieving bastards who don’t pay their dues to the Emperor”.

Others would cheerfully abduct girls barely old enough to menstruate, and carry them off to the citadel where they’ll be inspected and sold like cattle to the highest bidder – unless, of course, Uther claims them for himself. Anyone who doesn’t go through that particular hell is taken back to work and serve, like Gwaine, or killed for insubordination. Even if they aren’t shot dead – bullets are expensive after all – all their rations would be taken, leaving the people to die from famine or thirst, or sickness. Whichever happens first. Unless they kill themselves. That’s usually the best option, in Gwaine’s opinion.

If it hadn’t been for Lance, Gwaine would’ve given himself a bullet to the head a decade ago. As it is, he still struggles with the temptation every few days. But Lance had said that they could do more good alive than dead, and in a way, he’d been right.

When they’re out on a raid, it’s usually just them and maybe two or three others. They often manage to “overlook” any young girls, and give the older ones enough time to hide. Those that don’t hide well enough, they pretend not to see, and they never take so many rations as to leave the remaining people starving.

Sometimes they have to shoot someone, but they always aim for the shoulder, hoping that the person will be smart enough to cauterise the wound so it doesn’t get infected. It comes with pain, enough to make a person faint or wish they were dead, but in the end they get to live another day instead of dying like a dog.

Unfortunately, they can’t prevent the other members of their section doing serious harm without arousing suspicion in Camelot. If they came back a couple of members short every time, they’d get split up, or worse. If they came back with no prisoners or if their “comrades” reported that none of the three ever killed any rebels, it’d be just as bad.

But sometimes, when the Devils are particularly gruesome, they shoot them, and tell the settlers to burn the bodies, and then move somewhere else, scatter if possible. Gwaine has at least a dozen scars on his body from bullet holes and knife wounds that he gave himself or got from Lance or Leon, just to make it look convincing that they really did meet resistance.

Leon and Lance look much the same, and Gwaine knows their scars as intimately as he knows his own, has soothed the pain they had to inflict on each other with kisses and gentle touches.

When Gwaine isn’t thinking about killing himself, he thinks about escape. Only, that wouldn’t do any good either. His absence would be noticed, and the Devils don’t take well to deserters. The rest of his section, if not his entire platoon, would be killed in retribution, to make sure no more traitors remained. Gwaine might hate most of the “soldiers” with whom he serves, but there’s no guarantee there aren’t one or two like him who try to do the best they can despite the circumstances, like that guy that Leon sometimes talks to, the one who’s joining them today.

Today, with the hubbub over Arthur’s stunt, Gwaine and the guys can leave, pretending to go on the hunt, and just never return. Anyone will put it down to them being killed in action, and then they’ll be free to go anywhere. They can join a settlement, offer them protection and labour in exchange for part of their meagre rations. Maybe they can even make it across the border into the north country.

Twelve years in the service of Uther Pendragon, and finally – finally – Gwaine will be able to begin atoning for what he’s done in all this time.

A hand lands on his shoulder and he knows without looking that it’s Lance.

“Ready to leave?” Lance asks, and Gwaine scoffs.

“More than. I was born ready,” he replies, and turns to look at his partner.

Lance is smiling. Gwaine admires him for that, because he’s lost his ability to smile genuinely a long time ago. He used to laugh easily, flirt, and smile, before. Even after the Purge, after his parents and his sister had died in a camp raid, after he’d had to fend for himself for a long time… Gwaine had always found a new group of people he could call home, and he’d laugh with them despite the dreariness of their situations.

It’s amazing what a person can adapt to. Gwaine grew up with technology: Smartphones, computers, television, running hot water, supermarkets where you could buy your food for a few quid. When he was fourteen, before the Purge, he’d thought that getting pimples or spending time with his sister was the greatest misfortune that could befall him. And then the world had died and it seemed like he’d stumbled through a door into an alternate universe where the post-apocalyptic science-fiction he’d never enjoyed watching in cinemas was suddenly brutal reality. But if there is a door, Gwaine hasn’t found the way back yet.

“You were born a cheeky sod,” Lance tells him, still smiling, and Gwaine forces the corners of his mouth upwards, but he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. Lance doesn’t mind, though. He knows Gwaine’s trying, and that’s all that matters to him. Sometimes Gwaine thinks that Lance smiles so much so it’ll be enough for both of them, and it only makes Gwaine love him harder.

To be fair, Lance would stand by him even if Gwaine didn’t try to be better. That’s just who Lance is. Only two years younger than Gwaine and Leon, Lance grew up in the same world they did, but contrary to them, Lance had never been rich, or as privileged as Gwaine and Leon had been. Maybe that’s why he’d adapted better. Or maybe it just helped him cultivate an unhealthy optimism that he can’t shake even twenty years later.

“Leon’s right behind me, just grabbing a few rations for the road, and his friend Elyan should be here soon,” Lance tells him, and Gwaine nods.

He’s heard of Elyan, even seen him from far. He and Leon sometimes talk, and according to Leon, Elyan’s a kindred spirit. He’s been here for just about two years, and from what Leon said, so’s his twin sister, who’s now one of Uther’s prized possessions.

 _Well_ , Gwaine thinks, _not any longer. Now she’s Arthur’s._

Leon emerges from the gate and jogs over to them. The guards only nod when Leon shouts something at them in passing, and a moment later he’s within hearing distance of Gwaine and Lance.

“What car are we taking?” he asks, looking around the yard.

“There’s only the one option,” Gwaine says, gesturing to the piece of scrap metal that only a generous soul would call a car. “I thought we might take bikes,” he adds.

“Wouldn’t a car be less conspicuous?” Leon points out, and Gwaine nods.

“To Uther and the Devils, yes. To Caerleon and his Bikers, no.”

Lance hums. “I think we’d better take the car anyway. If Caerleon mistakes us for one of his, we might end up jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. I’d rather get off the stove entirely.”

Gwaine snorts. “Don’t hold back with the metaphors on our account,” he teases. “But you’re right. Car it is. Carries more fuel tanks too.”

They load up the few packs of dried meat that Leon secured, and the lot of fuel canisters that Lance brought. It doesn’t leave much room for all of them, but they’ve made do with smaller spaces in the past, after all. Some of Gwaine’s nicer memories of the past decade are of crammed spaces, actually.

Just as they’re done loading everything up, the man Gwaine recognises as Elyan joins them, adding another two packs of rations to the pile.

“This is Elyan,” Leon introduces him needlessly, and Gwaine holds out his hand. Elyan takes it, gripping it firmly and shaking it once. Gwaine approves immediately.

“That’s Gwaine,” Leon supplies. “Don’t mock his hair,” he adds in a stage whisper. It makes Elyan’s eyes go wide and he looks away from Gwaine’s eyes to his hair.

Gwaine knows he’s not much to look at anymore. There are a few deep, gnarly scars on his face that have marred his once rakish good looks, and even though he’ll never openly admit it, those scars bother him the most out of all the ones he’s got – despite the fact that he gave them to himself during one of those raids when they came back just the three of them. At the time, Gwaine felt like he didn’t deserve to go without visible punishment for what had happened that day, and now whenever he catches his reflection, it’s a stark reminder, as well as a deep regret for a time when he could afford to be vain. And should he ever forget what he’d done to deserve being disfigured like that, the sight of Leon’s scar where once his right eye was will do the trick to remind him. The question why Leon still insists on loving him haunts Gwaine sometimes, but he’s become better at accepting it, and does his best to show that he returns the feeling. Fiercely.

Gwaine’s hair is the only concession he’ll make to his former narcissism. He wears it long enough to sweep it up in a bun that he ties with an old leather strap on the top, but shaved to a fuzz around the sides and back to make it more manageable. The long strands go past his shoulders when undone, and he takes care to finger comb them every day, and wash them as often as he can. Anyone who’s tried to make fun of him for it – especially when they think they can insult him by calling him a girl – has been taught better by his fists, because the joke’s on them. Gwaine’s own sister had been one of the strongest people he’s ever known, and she’d always won when they sparred as kids. Back then it had annoyed him endlessly, but now he takes pride in being compared to that – it’s all he’s got left of her.

Gwaine gives Elyan a challenging look, but Elyan just shrugs. “Nothing to do with me,” he says, and then looks to Lance instead.

Lance holds out his hand and pulls Elyan into a one armed hug that knocks the air from Elyan’s lungs by the sound of it. “I’m Lance. Leon’s told us many things about you. I’m sorry about your sister. We’ll get her back.”

They pull apart and Elyan nods. “We have to hurry. Arthur’s got a big headstart by now, and getting past the Devils won’t be easy. They’re probably heading north, but there’s no sure way to tell yet, so I think it’s best to stay at the rear of the Devils convoy until we see an opening to get away and get Gwen out.”

Gwaine frowns, wondering who’d decided that this guy was going to be their leader, but Lance and Leon both nod in agreement, and Gwaine’s always been a big fan of democracy. Especially since he’s experiencing the alternative first hand.

“Let’s just hope we’re not too late,” he mutters as he slides into the supremely uncomfortable driver’s seat.

“What do you mean?” Elyan asks, staring at him.

Gwaine gives him a look. The lad looks to be no older than 18. Come to think of it, Leon might’ve mentioned that that’s his age.

He sighs. “I mean that there’s no guarantee Arthur didn’t take them to sell them to another warlord. There are other dictators out there besides Uther. He might be the richest and most powerful one of them all, but that doesn’t mean others wouldn’t pay a fortune for a bunch of beautiful young women – especially if they or their offspring could be used as hostages.”

Elyan pales, and climbs into the car quickly. Leon slaps Gwaine’s shoulder, then finds a seat in the car next to Lance who’s settled in right behind Gwaine. “Don’t scare the boy like that,” Lance chides. “We have no reason to believe that Arthur plans anything like that.”

“Don’t we?” Gwaine grumbles as he starts the engine. “If you ask me, there’s no reason why we should trust that the Emperor’s own son didn’t just take them to start his own empire somewhere.”

“Arthur’s not like that,” Leon says. “Don’t you remember that Uther disowned him? I know you were there when he was publicly disinherited and flogged. All three of us saw and heard it.”

“We did,” Gwaine agrees. “And that only proves that Arthur has more than enough reason to hate Uther. He takes revenge by taking his favourite things and making them his. Or selling them cheap.”

There’s a knife at his throat in an instant, and Leon and Lance are shouting Elyan’s name.

“My sister is not a thing. You won’t speak of her that way,” Elyan snarls, pressing the blade against Gwaine’s throat. It’s all Gwaine can do to keep driving instead of following his instinct to disarm and overpower Elyan.

“Gwaine,” Lance says calmly. “He’s right. You should apologise.”

Gwaine swallows, and realises his mistake when the blade cuts into his skin, stinging him and drawing a few beads of blood. It’s enough to make Elyan pull back the knife. He clearly doesn’t like harming others. That’s in his favour, Gwaine decides.

“Sorry,” he says thickly. “I only meant that that’s how Uther sees them, and how Arthur likely does too.”

Elyan pulls away entirely and slumps back against the passenger door. Lance and Leon take audible breaths of relief.

“There’s no guarantee Arthur’s on our side just because he escaped. We should act under the assumption that he isn’t, get your sister and the other girls away from him the first chance we get, and make sure to get the fuck out of there as fast as possible,” Gwaine reiterates.

No one argues this time, and Gwaine puts his foot down on the gas pedal.

On the upside, he’s finally out of the citadel after he doesn’t even know exactly how many years of imprisonment.

On the downside, he’s strapped to the roof of a car, has a needle stuck in his vein, and is hurtling along at too high a speed to be even remotely comfortable despite the position he’s in.

Still, he’s out of the citadel, and as long as he can find a way to get off this roof, he’s as good as free.

If only he could use his magic. He tries reaching for it. He’s felt tendrils of it over the years since he lost it – sometimes he’s able to light a bit of kindling, and once he could float piece of scrap metal a few centimetres off the ground.

It’s a far cry from making his toys dance when he was a kid, and even further from making flowers grow in winter because his mum had said that he couldn’t go barefoot until they did, but it’s something.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t help him with his current situation. Merlin closes his eyes – best to do that anyway against the airflow – and concentrates on where he is and what’s happening.

Roof of a car, head towards the hood, his arms secured to railings on either side. The left one’s got the needle in it, and from there leads a tube down to the driver. His feet are shackled to the railings too but he could, in theory, move the cuffs along the railing and reach his feet.

But what then?

He can’t pick the locks one handed, and the driver would probably notice that Merlin’s moving around if he tugs on the tube too much. So that option’s out of the question.

Merlin sighs and concentrates harder on finding that tendril of magic inside him. He’s been able to feel it more frequently lately, and he wonders if it’s waking up after all this time. It’s still not enough to be of any use. To be fair, even if he had more power, he’s got no idea how to use it. He stopped practising when he was five years old, and at twenty-six he’s entirely unsure how much power he originally had, if it’s ever coming back, or what to do with it if it does.

Any magic he’s done since the day it all went away, was by accident. Sure, he can feel the mild tingling inside his body that means there’s something there — if he concentrates hard enough on feeling it, that is — but shaping it into anything and make it do what he wants? Merlin has no idea how to do that.

Maybe it’s as easy as thinking about it, but then, a lot more magic would be happening around him if that were true. He’d already be free, for one thing. He’d probably never have been caught, actually.

He tries to ignore the frantic movements of the car, tries to ignore the bullets flying all around him. He doesn’t know what the driver’s trying to do, and he doesn’t much care at this point. He just wants to get out of these chains. Anything else comes after.

Merlin concentrates on the shackles around his wrists and ankles, imagines the tumblers inside the locks turning and opening up. He can practically hear the lock clicking open. He opens his eyes to look at his wrist, and—

Nothing’s happened.

“Fuck,” he courses under his breath, and thumps his head back onto the roof. There’s an answering thud from the driver’s cabin, and a shout that could be anything from “Shut up,” to “What’s up?”

Somehow Merlin doubts the driver actually cares much either way.

He closes his eyes again and tries a different approach. Maybe turning the locks to open was too ambitious. What if he could weaken a link in the chains instead? He could break the chain and escape with the shackles. There’ll be time to remove them later.

Once more he concentrates on the visualisation, picturing the metal thinning out and becoming brittle. The car swerves and Merlin gets thrown around a bit, but thankfully mostly stays in place. The chains are short, not giving him much wriggle room towards either side, and the shackles bite into his flesh when he’s pulled towards one side of the car.

After long moments of keeping his eyes screwed shut against the flying dirt, Merlin dares to breathe out and in again, grateful when he doesn’t choke on dust.

He relaxes as much as he can and turns his concentration inwards, searching for that faint tendril of power deep inside him. Merlin starts the visualisation over when he thinks he’s found his centre, and only when he feels like he can taste rust on his tongue, does he yank his right arm away from the railing –  only to be brought up short by the chain that holds fast.

“Damn it all,” Merlin shouts and opens his eyes again. His wrist aches from the strain, and something warm and sticky runs down his forearm. Great, he cut himself on the edge of the shackle. Hopefully it won’t get infected, or he’s done for.

A bullet flies right over his face, mere centimetres from his nose, and it’s pure luck that Merlin’s too shocked to try and evade it by turning his head, or else it might have grazed him after all.

So much for being done for. He’ll be lucky to die of blood infection at this rate.

The driver seems to notice the problem with the flying bullets as well, and swerves once more, presumably evading someone’s line of fire. Merlin wants to raise his upper body and check what’s going on, but he’s afraid of being caught by a stray bullet after all. At least pressed close to the roof of this car he’s a much smaller target.

And then the driver gets them real close to a huge truck. Merlin turns his head slightly to look up, only to find steely blue eyes glaring back at him. A jolt runs through him, and he gasps, surprised when he doesn’t immediately inhale dust and choke on it. The eyes look away again, back ahead, but Merlin’s unable to look away.

He can see the side of a face, tanned from the sun, hair bleached to the point of being almost white, despite the dirt and sweat clinging to it. _This must be Arthur_ , Merlin thinks. _The man they’re all hunting because he stole Uther’s wives._

Artwork by [whimsycatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher), rebloggable on [tumblr](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/165458922678).

The truck accelerates, and it takes Merlin’s driver a moment to match the speed again. Merlin’s lost sight of Arthur in the meantime, and has closed his eyes when a thick cloud of dust wells up from the truck’s tires.

And then he feels it. It’s as if someone ignited the glimmering kindling he felt earlier and now there’s more of a glow than a spark inside him. Merlin swallows thickly, keeps his eyes closed, and once more thinks about the chains bursting apart.

The car hits every bump in the uneven ground, and Merlin’s thrown around uncomfortably on the roof, but he doesn’t notice any of it as he keeps his focus on weakening the metal.

The next time the car hits a particularly deep hole in the road, Merlin flails enough to yank on his chain – and this time it breaks.

Merlin’s eyes fly open when he realises that his right leg is free, and he immediately pulls on his right arm, the chain falling apart easily.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and makes quick work of the last two chains, before yanking the needle out of his arm and turning over to properly grip onto the car’s railings. He can look around now, and what he sees is not particularly reassuring.

A big truck, the one Arthur’s driving, is at the front, surrounded by several pursuit vehicles, not all of which belong to the citadel, from what Merlin can tell.

Most of Camelot’s cars are doing their utmost to get the enemy vehicles away from the truck, but a few Devil cars continuously try to stop the truck, and get it to stop or slow down enough for them to board it.

None of them succeed, Merlin notes. The truck swerves and evades them, while running them into the enemy cars or each other. It’s skillful driving, especially taking into account the size of the vehicle.

And then Merlin looks past the truck, further ahead, and his heart jumps into his throat. There’s a storm right ahead of them, lightning crackling every few seconds, and wind blowing hard enough to uproot bushes and smaller trees. Arthur’s heading straight towards it, and so is Merlin’s driver.

 _I need to get inside the car_ , Merlin thinks, and closes his eyes to avoid debris flying into it. The airflow from the car’s speed, and the strength of the storm are sending clumps of dirt and dead vegetation flying around them, and as Merlin gets hit by a dead twig that strafes him hard enough to cut his skin, he thinks again, _I need to get inside the car._

All at once, the wind on his face and in his hair – what little there is of it – stops, and when he tentatively opens his eyes, he realises that he’s sitting behind the driver inside the car, looking out at the storm.

 _Holy shit_ , is the last thing Merlin thinks before they’re swallowed up by the dangerous mass of wind, dirt, and electric lightning.

Arthur knew it was too much to hope for that they’d only have to deal with Uther’s pursuit. The citadel had requested backup from the Oil Farm and Amata, and knowing both the Petrol Master – which, in Arthur’s opinion, was both a ridiculous name and at the same time a fitting title for his uncle Agravaine – and the Sarrum, they were more than up for a little hunt across the beautiful English countryside.

Well, if you want to call lifeless dirt and dead bushes beautiful, that is.

They hadn’t joined them yet, thankfully, but that didn’t mean Arthur and the girls were out of danger yet. They still have more than enough Devils crawling along the back of the truck, plus Uther’s pursuit convoy, and, oh joy, Odin’s Predators have just joined the fun.

Why do these megalomaniac warlords all insist on giving their armed forces and followers such ridiculous names?

Given that Arthur’s driving across no-man’s-land it isn’t unusual for Odin’s men to attack – especially a supply vehicle from the citadel. They’re probably hoping for either water or fuel. (And, to be fair, they wouldn’t be wrong. Arthur’s got both.)

All things considered, Arthur’s lucky under the circumstances. Uther’s Devils are doing their best to keep the Predators off Arthur’s truck, to make sure the wives are safe. Which means that Arthur can concentrate on getting them the fuck out of here and away from any and all pursuers.

And then there’s that little shit that’s ignoring both Odin and the rest of Uther’s people, and goes straight for the driver’s cabin to try and shoot Arthur. Arthur really hasn’t got the time or patience to deal with a rogue Devil who thinks he can win against Arthur.

The guy swerves and generally makes a nuisance of himself by trying to sabotage the truck’s tyres or the engine. Probably trying to blow up the entire vehicle — and that Arthur really can’t allow. He’s made a promise to the girls to protect them and take them to a safe place. He doesn’t much care about his own safety at this point, but theirs is important to him.

So Arthur shoots at the driver, and rams the car a few times until he realises suddenly, that there’s someone strapped to the roof. He’s been concentrating so much on the driver that he’d completely ignored the man chained to the top of the car.

Their eyes meet for a moment, Arthur scowling in anger that this driver is not only a bother to Arthur, but clearly some fucked up, cruel bastard who probably enjoys working for Uther if he treats other human beings this way.

The best course of action, Arthur decides, is to push the truck and go even faster. It’s not impossible to exceed the limits of what it can do for a short sprint, but he needs to time it right and the engines always need some time to cool down afterwards, effectively slowing him down in the long run.

Add to that that the storm waiting for him ahead will be hell to drive through. At least inside the cabin will be safe enough for him, and the rest of the Devils still clinging to the truck will be lost in the storm, if things go well.

He hits the accelerator hard, flicks the switch for the turbo, and the truck speeds up suddenly. Arthur loses sight of the car that’s been bothering him almost immediately.

Grinning to himself, he’s just about to put on his goggles and a scarf to protect his mouth and nose, when he spots movement out of the corner of his eyes.

“The fuck are you doing here?” he growls at the blonde woman who’s looking up from the hole in the cabin’s floor.

“We can’t bloody breathe back there!” Sophia complains.

Her face is pinched in disgust – as usual. Arthur’s seen her smile once, he thinks, when she was combing through Freya’s hair with her fingers. Her face could be sweet if it weren’t permanently frozen in anger. She looks almost doll-like, with sharp eyes and full lips. Arthur can see why Uther wanted her.

“Well, I’m being shot at, and about to drive into a storm, so you might want to consider returning to the stifling heat instead of being killed by stray bullets or flying trees,” Arthur snaps back.

Sophia glares at him defiantly, but – as if on cue – a bullet breaks through the rear window of the cabin and ricochets off the roof. It’s only thanks to Arthur’s practised reflexes that he manages to push Sophia back down into the hole and out of harm’s way.

She doesn’t come back up, and Arthur quickly closes the hatch again. At least she stayed out of sight of anyone who might be high up enough to get a proper look into the cabin.

The storm’s only seconds away from the truck, and Arthur quickly pulls on the goggles and scarf, then charges ahead, straight into the heart of the storm.

_I’m going to Avalon. I’ll find Emrys. We’ll defeat Uther. We’ll bring back magic. The world will live again._

First they need to get away from their pursuers, though, and this is the best way. Either they’ll come out on the other side, or—

Well. Best not to think about the or.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: Elyan and Gwen's mother's corpse was sexually violated, Merlin is forced to donate blood, Leon has lost an eye and bears scars on one side of his face from it, Gwaine cut his own face and now wears scars.


	3. Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings: vomitting. See notes at the end of this chapter for more details. (beware: spoilers)
> 
> Also: Apologies to all Mancunians. Your city was the best geographic fit for what's happening, and I apologise for the slander I'm putting it through.

The air’s stuffy and dead inside the small compartment where they’re hidden. Sophia’s been gone for a little while already, making the slow crawl towards the driver’s cabin to find out if it’s safe yet for them to get out. Gwen said it probably isn’t, going by the sounds she can hear above the roar of the engines, but Sophia insisted on going to check anyway.

The rest of them use the freed space to stretch their legs as much as they can. All of them knew it would be an uncomfortable ride for a while, and none of them dare complain (too much) because this is a small price to pay for freedom.

Elena inhales slowly, measuring her breaths and concentrating on the rhythm of her heartbeat. Five beats in, hold for two, five beats out, repeat.

It’s a technique she learned from one of her father’s men after the first time she’d joined the fights at the border to keep Uther’s Devils out of her father’s land.

‘Cornwall,’ her father had said their land was called, and it was, apart from the North, the only part of Albion that Uther didn’t own yet. And that’s why they had to fight. To keep the people in this area safe from Uther’s looting and people snatching.

Godwyn had somewhat decent ties to the mainland continent, and so they managed to live off of trades and what little food they could farm in the barren land. It wasn’t a rich life for anyone in Cornwall, but they were safe and they’d adapted to the circumstances as well as they could. They were, if not happy, at least more content than elsewhere.

Naturally, many had tried to find refuge with them, and for a while Godwyn took them all in. He had to stop when Elena was still very young. Resources became scarcer by the day, the continent was dying as much as Albion, and everywhere people were rationing what little food they had.

Uther’s attacks had never stopped, and as soon as Elena was old enough to reach the pedals, her father taught her how to drive, and Naseem, one of her father’s most trusted men, taught her how to fight. She was trained in all kinds of combat. She could spar with some of her father’s best men by the time she was sixteen, and win, and her aim when shooting was impeccable. It was only natural that she’d accompany the border patrols at that point.

That’s when she shot someone for the first time. A young boy, younger than her from the looks of it, with wide, grey eyes that stared at her in shock before the life inside them went out forever.

The image still haunts her sometimes, and the memory of the resulting panic often triggers hyperventilation. Naseem had taught her to breathe slowly and consciously, and it had calmed her down. She’d still cried into his chest, and he’d never once told her to suck it up or learn to ignore the emotions. He’d said that when the deaths stop hurting you, you’re as good as dead yourself.

Thoughts of Naseem with his thick black hair and enormous mustache, his dark brown skin, and the smile he always had for her, never fail to make Elena sad. She doesn’t know if he’s still alive, let alone where he is.

The day she was stolen, everything happened so fast. Uther himself had come to fight, and he and his allies had breached the border easily. With three times the amount of men on his side, breaking through Godwyn’s defences was easy.

Elena had been at home with her father that day when it happened, and because Uther overran the border, they didn’t hear about the attack until it was almost at their door. At that point, it was too late to form proper defence.

She remembers the noise of fighting – shouts, gunshots, even explosions – and the smell of death in the air. It’s a scent that’s been in her nose ever since then. Elena wonders if she’ll ever be rid of it.

Her father died in front of her while Elena was held back by three Devils, none of which passed up the chance to cop a good feel. As she was assaulted, she watched Uther cut down Godwyn, then shooting him for good measure while he lay bleeding and lifeless on the floor.

Uther didn’t even give her any time to mourn him before he dragged her off to Camelot, stripped her of everything she had – weapons, clothes, dignity – and locked her up with Vivian, their tutor Alice, and another, older woman who’d disappeared not too long after Elena arrived. She’d had long, dark brown hair, and sharp but beautiful features. Elena doesn’t remember much from her early days at Camelot, but Alice sometimes mentioned Catrina, and Elena thinks that was the woman’s name.

Slowly, the air’s getting thinner in their metal prison, and every single one of her muscles is sore from trying to sit still while the truck crashes about. She dearly hopes that they’ll be able to open the bottom hatch soon and get out. Even the sweltering heat of the no-man’s-land is better than the suffocating stuffiness of the compartment.

Now that she concentrates on the noise rather than her thoughts, she can hear the sounds of guns being fired, and vehicles slamming into the truck on either side as well. Arthur must’ve run into far more trouble than he anticipated if they’re already on his trail. It might feel like they’ve been on the road for ages inside this metal prison – no, not a prison, nothing like a prison, just the way by which they travel towards freedom – but in reality she knows it can’t have been that long since they left Camelot.

Uther must’ve realised that they were gone the moment Arthur had stayed on the road instead of turning off to go to the Oil Farm. Either that, or one of the outlaw warlords had decided to take on a vehicle of the citadel while it was outside its borders.

Something bangs inside the small vent that runs from here towards the front of the truck, and the four of them tense up, ready to defend themselves in the small space if necessary. They all breathe out in relief when it’s Sophia’s face that reappears, then draw their legs back towards their chests to make room for her.

She carefully drops back into the compartment and sits up.

“As Gwen suspected,” she says. “The truck’s being pursued by vehicles, they’re shooting at Arthur, but he’s holding his own. He was heading for a storm, probably hoping to shake most of them off inside.”

The moment she says it, they can hear a loud rumbling outside, like an explosion that echoes all around them. Elena hopes it’s thunder from the storm Sophia mentioned.

There are more noises, things banging against the tank. Some sound like stones, some decidedly larger. Elena wonders if the sides of the tank will be dented once they get back outside to look at it, or if the thick metal walls can sustain that kind of onslaught. She’s glad once more that their compartment’s in the middle of the tank, towards the bottom. Even if the outer walls get damaged, someone would have to pry open the tank and the walls separating the cabin from the rest of it to find them. No one knows this compartment existed, except for the five of them, and Arthur. As far as Elena knows, he built it into the tank himself, saying that he didn’t trust anyone else not to ask questions, or make careless comments in the presence of others.

She knows Arthur’s risking a lot for them, just like she knows that his motives are, at least in part, selfish. He wanted to leave, and has been looking for a way to do it for a while. Taking them with him hadn’t been part of the plan originally, although she knows that he has always meant to come back for them once he found his sorcerer.

If she, Vivian and Sophia hadn’t insisted, they’d still be locked away in Camelot, biding their time until Uther decided which one of them he wanted to play with that day.

Elena grits her teeth and refocuses on her breathing. Five beats in, hold for two, five beats out, repeat. There’s no point in dwelling on what happened to them at the citadel. It’s over now, and they would never have to endure anything like that again. Even if anyone tried, Elena would sooner slit her own wrists than let anyone touch her against her will ever again.

The tank hits a nasty bump in the road, and the five of them get thrown around the small space, hitting their heads and bruising their backs, but that’s nothing compared to what they’re leaving behind. It’s nothing at all, because they’re going to Avalon, to find the druids, and be free.

Elena breathes. Five beats in, hold for two, five beats out, repeat.

Maybe it’s not exactly sane to drive through a storm in a relatively light vehicle that could – technically – be picked up by the whirlwind causing the storm any moment to end up smashed into the ground, its passengers crushed into a bloody pulp inside.

Then again, following the truck despite the circumstances is exactly what’s going to give Will the edge to get to Pendragon without anyone else interfering. Odin’s cars are already gone, stopping before they entered the storm, and the handful of Uther’s pursuers are too reckless in their blind eagerness to please the Emperor. They end up driving too close to the edge of the whirlwind, and get what they had coming for it. One of the Devils almost flies into the windshield of Will’s car, and it’s just thanks to Will’s reflexes that he manages to dodge.

His donor sitting behind him flinches nevertheless. Will still has no idea how he got inside but he’s got bigger problems at the moment. First they have to make it out of here in one piece and on Arthur’s trail, then he’ll worry about his donor’s weird appearance.

Or maybe not. Will doesn’t actually care much about whether this guy can do magic or not. Will’s not gonna turn him over to the Emperor, and he’s unlikely to live long enough to have to deal with the fallout even if they are caught.

Not that anyone knows that this guy probably has magic in his blood. If they did, he wouldn’t be sitting here; he’d have been burnt to a crisp the moment he entered the citadel. Then again, if he does have magic, that might just give Will the kick he needs to kill Arthur. Wouldn’t that be sweet? Killed by the very thing his father spent so much energy to destroy, all consequences be damned. It would be divine retribution, or some such shit. Maybe it would even bring about the change the world needs.

Will shakes his head. It’s nothing to do with him. Magic or no, he’s gonna be the one who kills Arthur, and then he can kill himself and be rid of this miserable existence once and for all. That’s all he cares about.

He dodges another flying body, then a tree stump. The donor guy keeps yelling in the back and Will’s close, making a sharp turn and taking care to open the door so the donor will fall out of the car, but then another car veers into his path and he’s busy manoeuvring around it, and the guy finally shuts up.

They watch as Arthur’s truck forces the last vehicle on its tail towards the edge of the whirlwind, where it’s picked up, hurled around and ripped apart, and then Will suddenly knows what he has to do.

There’s enough petrol in the tanks to explode the damn thing, and if he gets close enough to the truck, in front of it even, the explosion will ignite the truck’s engine and boom, Arthur’s gone.

He starts opening the outlets, and the floor floods with petrol, its smell sharp in the small space of the car. Will doesn’t look back, but he hears the guy behind him gasp sharply, and ignores his grunts of protest. When the guy grabs him, Will knocks his elbow into his gut and pushes him off. The guy falls back again, but quickly lunges for Will again. Will turns the car sharply, getting it closer to the side of the truck. Either Arthur doesn’t regard him as a threat, or he hasn’t noticed him because there are no manoeuvres to shake him off.

 _Good_ , Will thinks. _This is gonna be a nice surprise._

The petrol sloshes around his feet and Will rummages around for one of the flares he keeps in the glove compartment. The donor guy tries to grab it, but another punch to the gut, and then his jaw, knocks him out. He slumps down, and Will grabs the flare.

He’s in front of the truck now, and Arthur finally must’ve noticed him because he slows for just a moment to get some distance between them, and then picks up speed to ram him.

“Do it, bastard!” Will shouts as he lights the flare. The moment the truck runs into him, Will is going to drop the flare, and they’ll all light up nice and big, ending things once and for all.

The truck hits the back of the car, Will drops the flare, and then a blinding light erupts inside the cabin before the car lifts into the air. Will’s thrown out of his seat as it turns over and over in the air, and he’s just got enough time to register that nothing’s burning, nothing’s exploded, before he hits his head against the roof of the car and everything goes black.

The truck finally stops, and Vivian breathes a sigh of relief. She didn’t complain once the entire time, because despite what the others think of her, she’s more than capable of enduring discomfort. Not even when discomfort is the biggest understatement she’s ever heard.

She’s been Uther’s wife the longest of the five of them, after all, and currently carrying his child. Compared to all of that, sitting cramped in an overheated metal compartment while racing over uneven ground is nothing. However, feeling every bump in the road in your back and belly isn’t the nicest way to travel, nor is feeling sick to your stomach every time you take a breath.

Therefore, when they stop, and Arthur opens the hatch to let them out, Vivian’s glad for the relative fresh air. It’s still hot outside, and barely a breeze in the air, but anything’s better than the oppressing atmosphere of the compartment they’ve been stuck in.

One by one they climb out. Vivian first, carefully lowering herself to the ground, crouching under the big tank, and crawling until she can stand upright once more. Her belly’s heavy, and her feet and ankles swollen thick, but she straightens and stretches nevertheless, thankful for the ability to move that much after sitting cramped for so long.

With the relief of stretched muscles comes the sudden rush of blood returning to limbs, and a nasty bout of vertigo that has her doubling over awkwardly next to the truck, and vomitting on the ground. She doesn’t have much in her stomach, and the acid is burning her throat, but she feels better afterwards anyway.

Freya’s the next one out of the hatch. Her dark curls are plastered to her forehead under her white muslin shawl that she always wears around her head. She’s clutching it tightly to her, looking around with big eyes that tell Vivian everything about how frightened she is for disobeying Uther and running away.

 _She’s seen too much in her few years_ , Vivian thinks. She’s only fifteen, and the youngest among them. Freya hasn’t been with them long – only a few months – but she’s seen far more than any girl her age should have. They all have, but from the few things Vivian overheard Freya telling Sophia, she’s been through hell a few times already by the time she was captured by the Devils. In her eyes, being in Camelot was as good as life got, and she was afraid of losing what little she had gained in the last couple of months.

Vivian hopes that Freya will realise one day that life should have more to offer than conditional safety.

She sighs, and slowly rubs her belly to soothe the kicking baby. It’s been punching and kicking her all this while, only adding to the slow torture of being stuck inside that compartment for so long.

“Settle down,” she tells it quietly, pressing the heel of her hand into her stomach where she felt the last kick as she watches Sophia emerge right behind Freya, as Vivian knew she would. Just a year older than Freya, Sophia is the polar opposite of her. Fierce, unafraid, spiteful, and never content with what she has. She was brought to Uther about two years ago when she was only fourteen, around the same time that Gwen joined them. Sophia has never lost the fire in her eyes, and always fights Uther every step of the way, earning herself bruises and injuries in the process.

Some days, Vivian thinks she does it so Uther will cast her away for being too stubborn, or because she bears too many marks from his punishments and has become too ugly for his tastes. No matter how often Vivian tries to explain to her that Uther only thrives harder on her resistance, she won’t listen.

Sophia doesn’t realise yet that she’s pregnant as well, but Vivian can tell. Sophia’s period is always irregular, but now it’s weeks overdue, and while Sophia clearly hasn’t noticed – or doesn’t show that she has – Vivian can tell. She wonders what Sophia will do once she finds out. Short of cutting her own stomach open to get the embryo out, she’s probably ready to try anything to get rid of it. Probably even goring herself, if only it will get Uther’s spawn out of her.

Vivian stretches again, hands pressed against her back, and bending backwards. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Arthur unrolling a water hose and hooking it up to the tank’s outlet. She hopes that means they get to freshen up, but it’s just as likely that he’s going to wash the dust off the bonnet to make sure the engine doesn’t clog up. Either way, she’d like to rinse her mouth out.

When she looks back, Gwen and Elena have come out of the tank as well, and they’re already walking towards her.

“How are you?” Gwen asks gently, reaching out to rub Vivian’s shoulders.

Vivian shrugs. “Pretty good, actually.”

Elena unravels the long strip of fabric around her hips and shakes it out, managing to hit both Gwen and Vivian with dust and sand. The moment she realises what she’s done, Elena begins apologising profusely, but Vivian waves her off. Gwen’s already laughing about it, too, so Elena ducks her head with a sheepish look, and quickly wraps her hips in the fabric again, tying it off securely.

None of them have much in the way of clothing, which is exactly how Uther had liked them. Vivian herself only has one tube of fabric secured around her breasts with a bit of string, and the same length of cotton that each of them uses as loincloth. Uther hasn’t touched her anywhere but her belly since she started showing, but has insisted she keep it uncovered so he could look at it any time he wishes.

Considering that at least he hadn’t insisted all of them were constantly naked, Vivian’s glad they were given that much clothing. At least they wouldn’t have to be completely exposed out here, now, and given the temperature, light clothes were actually a blessing.

“Threw up the rest of my breakfast, and could use a nice, cool bath, but considering where we are and where we’re going, I don’t think I’ve felt this good in years,” Vivian adds when Gwen looks at her with concern again.

“How’s the baby?” Gwen asks, gaze dropping down to Vivian’s belly. “Any problems with the little one?”

“Kicking up a fuss,” Vivian replies, rubbing her belly again. “I don’t think it liked travelling in the tank any more than we did.”

The sound of water draws her eyes back to Arthur, and she watches as he drinks before dousing his head and chest, washing off the grease as much as he can. He doesn’t do more than shower the water over himself for a moment – apparently unwilling to waste water, or to make them wait any longer – before shutting off the hose, and holding it out to Vivian, Gwen and Elena.

When Vivan steps forward to take it from him, he holds her gaze for a moment. “We shouldn’t linger for too long. Make it brief, then get in the cabin. I want us moving as soon as possible.”

She nods, then takes the hose from him. His gaze flicks to the women behind her, and then she watches with surprise as his cheeks turn red and he quickly averts his gaze. He stammers something as he turns around and walks off to the other side of the truck, muttering about finding tools to get the dust out of the engine bay.

Vivian turns back to where Arthur was looking, and then grins to herself. Gwen had taken off her top to get the dust off her chest and out of her clothes, and is standing there, bare breasts and all, entirely unselfconscious or worried about who might see her.

It’s no wonder Arthur had been so shocked. As far as Vivian knows, he’s never been with a woman. She’s known him since before he was disowned, and Arthur has always been… not shy, but reserved around her and the other girls and women. He never much looked at them, and of course she knows what had happened between him and Mithian – which was to say: nothing at all. Mithian had told her that Arthur hadn’t even looked at her, not even when she’d taken off all her clothes and laid on the bed as she was expected to.

He might have found someone after he was sent away, and he’s certainly learned to look at women – but never the same way Uther or some of the Devils look at them. He always regards them with respect and as if they’re equal to him. Come to think of it, she’s never seen him look at anyone with sexual interest – men or women.

She smiles to herself, and walks back towards the other girls while turning the hose back on. The squeal that Elena lets loose when Vivian directs the stream at her without warning, makes her laugh, and it’s such a freeing feeling, that she does it again just because for the first time in six years, she actually has a reason to be happy.

_It could be worse_ , Arthur thinks. The truck actually doesn’t look too bad after coming out of the storm. There are a few dents, the cabin’s rear window is gone, some severe scratches along the side, and of course the front is bent out of shape from the force with which he hit that car, but overall it could be much, much worse.

That car… Arthur still doesn’t know what happened there. He saw the light go off inside it, saw it lift into the air and then it was gone, crashing down somewhere to the side, quickly disappearing in the darkness of the storm.

If it had been an explosion, the car should’ve been on fire. Arthur might not have had much time to get a good look at the thing, but he’d seen no flames, no explosion. Just white, blinding light.

 _Whatever_ , he thinks. They’re out of the storm, they’ve got all the Devils off their backs for the moment – at least if they can get back on track within the next ten minutes, that is. He doubts that the storm will last much longer, let alone hold up Uther and his followers for long.

All the more reason to get going as soon as possible to lengthen the distance between them and Uther’s horde. They will soon be joined by the fighters of Amata and the Oil Farm, and then things could get really ugly, unless Arthur reaches the border, and Cenred holds up his part of the deal.

There are no maps left of the country – and even if there were, they wouldn’t do him any good. The cities are all abandoned ruins, rivers and lakes have dried up. Even the oceans of the world are so far reduced that Albion hasn’t been an island in fifteen years. At least, that’s what Gaius told Arthur.

Incidentally, Gaius is also the one who told Arthur how to get where he needs to go without a map. Follow the old road north-west to the border, then stay on the road until—

“Arthur!”

Vivian’s shout breaks Arthur out of his musings, and he ducks and rolls under the truck’s tank to get back onto the other side, coming up into a defensive stance the moment he’s clear of the tank.

The girls are standing close together, much like they did before. Vivian has turned off the hose and is standing protectively in front of the others, Gwen close behind her right shoulder. At their feet lie the chastity belts Uther made all of them wear, bolt cutters still in Sophia’s hand.

They’re all staring past him, heads held high – except for Freya who’s hiding behind Sophia and making herself as small a target as possible.

Arthur turns his head slowly, following their gazes to a gangly figure, dark hair covering their head and equally dark stubble just starting to turn into a proper beard. It takes Arthur a moment but then he recognises the man he saw tied to the roof of the car.

He’s still wearing the shackles around his wrists and ankles, bits of chain dangling from them. His eyes are rimmed by dark shadows and the way he’s looking longingly in the direction of the women makes Arthur uneasy. Slowly he steps into the path of the stranger, holding his right arm in front of himself, steel fingers ready to extend the blade.

The man’s gaze slowly travels up Arthur’s arm to his face. Their eyes meet briefly, but then the man looks away again, behind Arthur towards the women.

Arthur scowls.

“They’re not for you. They’re not for anyone but themselves,” he says, squaring his shoulders to make himself look bigger than he already is.

The man looks confused, shakes his head, opens his mouth.

If he says anything, Arthur can’t hear him.

“What?” Arthur says, taking a small step closer.

The man’s mouth opens again but nothing comes out.

“He wants water,” Gwen says from behind him.

Arthur watches the man as he nods. His eyes have that longing look to them again, and they’re still fixed on the women behind Arthur.

Or the hose that Vivian’s holding.

Arthur holds out his arm. “Give me the hose, Viv.”

A moment later it’s in his hand and he slowly steps forward toward the man. His gaze has shifted from the women to Arthur’s hand, confirming Arthur’s thoughts.

 _He just wants water_ , Arthur tells himself. _He’s too skinny to overpower me._

Arthur stops an arm’s length away, and holds out his right arm with the hose. Slowly, the stranger raises his own hands and tries to take the hose from Arthur, but Arthur holds firm. He reaches up with his left hand to open it, and then a stream of water hits the man’s neck and chest.

With a choked sound, the man sinks to his knees to get his face under the stream, opening his mouth and swallowing mouthfuls. He cups his hands in front of his mouth to better guide the water, and as the shackles slip a little further down through the motion, Arthur can see angry red skin, broken in some parts and scabbed over.

He doesn’t know this man, has no idea what his agenda is, if he even has any beyond surviving, but the sight of his bruised wrists and the pitiful sounds he makes as he nearly drowns himself in his haste to drink more, tug on something inside Arthur.

Artwork by [whimsycatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher), rebloggable on [tumblr](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/165458922678).

After another few moments, Arthur turns off the hose and steps away.

“Get back in the truck,” he orders the women. Freya and Elena comply immediately, but Sophia shoots him an angry glare before dropping the pliers in the sand and following them. Arthur knows she hates being told what to do, but until they’ve reached their goal, it’s his job to make sure they stay alive and if he says they need to move, then they need to listen to him. He doesn’t like ordering them around any more than she does, but someone needs to take the lead, and until they’re past Cenred’s checkpoint, that someone is going to be him.

Gwen and Vivian are still watching the stranger.

“We need to get going,” Arthur says as patiently as he can while he coils the hose and secures it in its place.

“What about him?” Gwen asks.

“What about him?” Arthur returns.

“He’ll die out here on his own. If the Devils don’t catch him, the heat will kill him,” Vivian says, stepping forward.

Arthur catches her arm.

“We don’t know anything about him,” Arthur warns. “For all we know, he could be a Devil under Uther’s command, just waiting for his chance to stick a knife in my throat and take you back to his master. We can’t afford to trust strangers.”

Arthur looks back to the man who’s finally got back on his feet. His entire front is drenched in water, and now that the dirt’s off his face, Arthur can see how pale he is.

“Help,” says a rough voice, and it takes Arthur a moment to realise that it was the man who spoke.

“We’re not going to help you,” Arthur says quickly, pulling Vivian further back.

“Arthur,” Gwen snaps. She steps neatly around him and towards the stranger.

“No, Gwen,” he says. “We don’t know him and we can’t trust him.”

“Of course we can,” Vivian insists, glaring at him until he finally lets go of her arm.

“Look at him,” she goes on once she’s free, stepping beside Gwen. “He was a prisoner, just like us.”

“And how did he get free, hm? He was chained to the roof of a car. How did he get out of that if no one broke him out? Come to think of it, it was the same car that tried to blow us up,” Arthur argues angrily.

“He was _what_?” Vivian asks, taking another step towards the stranger. “That’s even more reason to take him with us.”

“No,” Arthur growls. “We don’t know why he’s involved in this, and we can’t. Trust. Him.”

Gwen turns a glare on Arthur. “We’ve endured enough pain and suffering to recognise it in others. This man was as much a prisoner of Uther as we all were. He comes with us,” she says, her voice brooking no argument.

Arthur looks to Vivian, hoping that she’ll see reason at least.

Vivian offers him a small smile. “Gwen’s right. We’re taking him with us.”

And before Arthur knows it, the two women have taken the man’s hands and urged him to get inside the truck’s cabin.

“Oh, and Arthur?” Vivian calls just as she’s about to climb in herself, “bring those pliers we used to get the belts off us. We need to get him out of those shackles and bandaged.”

Arthur clenches his jaw, and does as he’s told.

The roar of the engine is loud in Merlin’s ears, taking him back to the moment when the driver of the car almost managed to blow all of them up.

Merlin’s not entirely certain what happened. One moment he was wheezing from the pain of being punched in the gut, and in the next he sees the driver hold up the flare, ready to drop it into the pool of petrol at the bottom of the car.

All Merlin could think in that moment was that he didn’t want to die like this. Not now, and not by taking more lives with him because some maniac thought he had a right to drag innocent bystanders into his vendetta.

And then everything had gone white and the car had tipped sideways, or lifted off the ground – or possibly both. The next thing Merlin remembers is waking up with his face in a puddle of petrol while everything around the car had gone eerily quiet. The storm must have passed while he was out cold.

He found the driver halfway through the windshield, bleeding from his shoulder and a nasty cut on his forehead, but otherwise breathing.

Merlin hadn’t stayed to check if he was going to wake up. The sooner he got away from this fanatic, the better.

Climbing out of the car had been difficult. The windows had broken but not enough to actually smash them, so Merlin had to push hard to get them to crumble and make an opening through which he could climb. One of the dangling bit of chain from his foot had caught in something and he’d almost broken his leg when he’d fallen to the ground with his leg still inside the car, bent at an awkward angle over the door frame.

And then he’d started walking. He could tell reasonably well where Camelot was. He was sure they’d headed north from the citadel, and so north is where he’d keep going.

He wasn’t surprised when he passed a few more car wrecks as he walked. The storm had been furious and flung the light vehicles around easily.

What had surprised him that not too far up the old paved road he was walking, the truck had come into view. Merlin had quickened his pace even though there was no telling what he’d find or how he’d be received. He didn’t care. All he knew was that these people were running from Uther and he’d rather go with them than fall back into the hands of the Devils.

From the moment he’d seen the stream of water, Merlin had been transfixed by it, wanting nothing more than to wash the petrol off his face, and drink until his stomach couldn’t take any more.

Now that he’s in the truck’s cabin, he regrets being so greedy. His stomach’s roiling from being unusually full, and as soon as the pretty, dark skinned woman – Gwen? – lets go of his wrists long enough, Merlin opens the passenger door, leans out and throws up at least half of what he drank earlier.

Strong hands grab his shoulders to keep him from falling out of the cabin, and the driver – Arthur? – swears up a storm while Merlin falls back against the seat and weakly pulls the door shut.

Gwen’s stroking Merlin’s head and wiping his mouth.

“You should’ve taken it easier with the water,” she says gently. “Only small sips from now on, you hear?”

Merlin nods weakly.

“So’y,” he rasps. His voice feels scratchy from disuse and the acid burning in his throat.

“It’s fine,” Gwen soothes. “Lean against the door now so we can look at your ankles.”

Merlin’s too exhausted to protest. Between losing blood in the involuntary transfusion, and everything that came before and after, he’s more than willing to comply with whatever she’s doing to him, so he leans his back against the door and puts his feet on the seat.

“Do you see now, Arthur?” another voice asks. Merlin doesn’t open his eyes to check, but he thinks it’s the pregnant woman that spoke.

“See what?” Arthur grumbles. Merlin supposes he can’t fault him for being mistrusting. Merlin had been on the roof of a pursuing car, and he does have Uther’s sigil burned into the back of his neck.

Then again, the burn mark Arthur’s got on his chest looks much like the one gracing Merlin’s nape, so that really doesn’t say anything about loyalty.

“That he’s been a prisoner as well,” the pregnant woman insists. Merlin wishes he could remember what Arthur called her.

“They’re all prisoners. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t internalised Uther’s hate,” Arthur says. He sounds tired, and Merlin cracks his eyes open to look at him.

His face is an impassive mask, eyes fixed on the road ahead of them, but his grip on the steering wheel is tight. The knuckles of his left hand are white from how hard he’s holding onto the wheel, and Merlin would bet that his right hand is close to breaking the entire thing even though you can’t really tell with the prosthetic.

“Even if he has, he must’ve lost all his illusions by now,” a new voice says. Merlin turns his head a fraction to see who spoke. It’s another blonde woman, sitting next to the pregnant one. They could be sisters, as far as Merlin’s concerned. The one who isn’t pregnant meets his eyes, and Merlin quickly looks away again.

“I don’t think he was loyal to Uther,” Gwen says. Merlin looks at her, but her eyes are fixed on his chest.

 _Ah_ , Merlin thinks, _the tattoo._ Gwen looks at it like she knows what it means, and when she finally drags her eyes up to meet his, there’s nothing but kindness and understanding there.

Merlin swallows, and nods. It earns him a smile, and he’s not sure if he manages to return it, but he certainly tries.

“Never mind that,” a voice from behind his seat says. “We’ve got company.”

He looks up and catches a glance of yet another blonde woman, who’s got her arm around a girl with long, dark hair. The girl looks frightened and so young, Merlin wouldn’t dare ask how old she is even if his voice were of more use right now – or if the blonde at her side weren’t glaring daggers at him. She jerks her head towards the front and Merlin, slowly as not to startle Gwen, sits up and turns forward in the seat to check the wing mirror.

A whole lot of vehicles are racing after them, and not just ones flying Camelot’s banner. There’s the bird of the Oil Farm, and the crossed spears of Amata as well. Uther’s reinforcements have arrived, then.

Arthur curses and then the truck accelerates.

“Can you fire a gun?” Arthur asks, and it takes Merlin a moment to realise that Arthur’s speaking to him. Slowly he turns his head to look at him.

“Yes, you, can you shoot?” Arthur repeats, only looking away from the road for a short moment to fix Merlin with cold, blue eyes.

Merlin nods. He’s used guns before and he’s certain he can hit a mark.

“Then take the rear of the truck and earn your keep,” Arthur growls. He picks up a gun from the floor of the truck and holds it out to Merlin.

“Arthur, no,” Gwen protests, “he can barely move!”

Instead of explaining that now that the heavy shackles are off, and he’s got some water inside him, he’s more than capable of moving around, Merlin takes the gun with one hand, and puts the other on Gwen’s arm.

“I’ll do’t,” he croaks.

“You don’t have to,” Gwen says earnestly.

“I do,” Merlin says, voice cracking. “Wan’ to.”

He stashes the gun in the back of his trousers, tucking it tightly beneath the strip of rough, red fabric that Doc gave him to use as a belt. For everything that has been done to him at the citadel over the years, this small kindness to preserve his dignity has been appreciated.

Before Gwen or anyone else can protest further, he opens the passenger door again and quickly climbs out, trusting that his luck and magic will keep him safe once more.

Percy’s surprised when Uther doesn’t follow the truck into the storm, and instead opts to drive around it. It’s a much longer way, and they’re likely to give them more of a head start that way, after all.

However, after seeing what exactly the wind did to some of the cars and their passengers that got caught in it, Uther probably deemed it too high a risk to drive through it.

 _Good_ , Percy thinks. _Arthur and the girls need all the time they can get to get further away._

The other thing working in Arthur’s favour is the fact that Uther has no idea where they’re going, and neither does anyone else. The only one who might have known lies dead inside the prison where the girls were kept.

Of course, it’s not that difficult to guess that they’re headed for the border. The north is where they’d truly be beyond Uther’s reach – at least for the moment – but there’s no saying whether Arthur managed to make a deal with Cenred.

Uther, while not knowing for sure either, still sent one of his fast bikers out to inform Cenred of Arthur’s arrival ahead of time. Percy doesn’t know if he’ll make it in time or unnoticed, but he hopes that whatever deal Arthur made will ensure that he gets across regardless.

Percy clenches his jaw, but otherwise keeps his face impassive. It’s served him well that Uther thinks he’s a brainless meathead, and he intends to keep it that way. He’s endured years of watching Uther do horrible things without an outward reaction and he’ll keep going until the opportunity he’s been waiting for arises. Until then he’ll play the brainless meathead that Uther thinks he is.

They’ve reached the edge of the storm – finally – and Percy twists around to get a look at the convoy behind them. The cars have multiplied since he last looked. Their own forces have been joined by Amata’s and the Oil Farm’s warriors.

Percy stares at the vehicles. He was forced to fire the flares to call for reinforcements, as much as he would’ve liked not to do it. Alienating Uther now, and showing face serves no purpose. If Uther dies here, the only thing that will happen is that either Petrol Master or Sarrum will take over his reign.

They need to be eliminated first, or at the same time. Percy hopes that this pursuit will give him the chance to do it. If he’s lucky, they’ll all shoot each other and he won’t have to do a thing. If not, this’ll bring them closer together, and Uther will become more powerful.

Percy turns back to face the front. Out the side window they can watch the storm rage on, and slowly move south towards Camelot, while Uther drives the car hard up north.

There’s always the hope that Arthur turned west at some point, since Uther’s opted to go around the storm on the east side. Or maybe they doubled back and are heading back south on the other side of the storm.

The odds are small though. Arthur’s smart, and he’ll have calculated all his options. Instead of going west, he could go east and surprise Uther, but the east is flatter and and there aren’t many places left where they could hide safely. Plus, Uther controls almost all of it since Godwyn fell. Even the no-man’s land they’re in at the moment belongs – more or less – to Uther’s main territory.

It would be much smarter to go north, even if it’s the most obvious direction, and the one they’re most likely to be followed first. Then again, from what Percy has overheard from Devils and travellers, and at times Uther himself, the north is riddled with mountains and deep canyons – and that’s only if you get past Cenred’s Wall. But, it’s easier to disappear in the north, regardless of whether you follow one of the old roads to the old coastline or not.

Percy can’t even imagine what it must’ve been like. Land ending at an edge of water. So much water that it fills not just a tub or pool like at the citadel but such a big pond that you can’t even see the end of it. So much water to divide land, and create a lake so deep you can’t stand upright without being submerged.

He’s heard that there is still some water left, although you have to travel far to see it.

He wants to see it some day.

Running away isn’t an option though. Percy would never forgive himself for leaving others to the fate that he managed to evade. Not if he’s in a position to do something big.

If only the right moment were here already.

After what feels like hours of driving, they finally reach the northern edge of the storm. Wind’s still whipping viciously around them, but it’s not nearly as fierce as inside the big cloud of dust and flying bushes.

There’s no sign of the truck in sight, and Percy suppresses the sigh of relief that presses against his lungs. Not until Uther gives up and turns back around can Percy relax. They might still find them and catch up. The cars are lighter than the truck and can go faster – and there’s a lot of them.

“Kay, find the road,” Uther barks, and the Devil that’s crouched next to Uther pulls a map out of nowhere.

Percy knows maps, has seen them often enough while guarding Uther during strategy meetings. What he hadn’t known is that they came in this small size, and with all the old roads drawn on it.

He watches as Kay follows a white line from where Camelot sits, up north, then deviates to the right as if to follow the route they took around the storm.

There are so many names written on the map and it takes Percy a moment to realise that they’re names of cities and villages that used to be there. For just a second he closes his eyes to keep anyone from seeing the emotion he’s not quick enough to hide. All of them are lost. People died, histories are gone. Uther destroyed so much and continues to ruin more.

When Percy opens his eyes again, Kay seems to have found his way back onto the road they were on before. How he did it, Percy has no idea because around them are nothing but wasteland, barely enough ruins left to hint at what dwelling stood there before. But, Kay’s giving Uther directions where to go and it doesn’t take them long until they’re back on an old, paved road, speeding along through dirt and rubble, a long line of warriors and allied forces behind them.

Finally, in the far distance, Percy spots something moving against the horizon. The sun shines brightly, and the heat makes their vision swim, so at first he thinks it’s a trick of the mind. But the closer they get, the more the shape becomes clear until even from this distance Percy can tell what it is.

It’s Arthur’s truck – and Uther’s catching up.

It’s pure luck that puts Will in the way of Uther and his entourage. Uther himself races past him, but one of the following vehicles recognises Will as one of their own and lets him climb on. Will’s on the back of a car not too far behind Uther, holding onto one of the spikes mounted on the roof as he keeps his feet firmly on the hood of the boot. He’s been trying to figure out how to get onto Arthur’s truck ever since he came to with his shoulder throbbing, and blood caked on his face. He didn’t even bother to clean up beyond wiping what blood he could off his face on the sleeve of his jacket before running towards the oncoming vehicles still pursuing the truck. With a bit of persuasion, Will got the driver to speed up until they reached the spot where they’re now. Sometimes these gullible Devils were good for some things after all.

Arthur’s got a good headstart, but the same advantage he has – open, paved road, nearly no obstacles in the way – they do, too. Plus, their vehicles are lighter and therefore faster in the long run.

Will urges the driver on to go even faster, shouting through the empty frame of the rear window promises of glory if they manage to stop the truck and deliver the wives back to Uther.

The driver hesitates, but only until Will tells them that they’ve got a sorcerer on board, and that they have a duty to hunt him and protect the wives. That gets the driver going, and soon the car speeds past Uther right towards the truck.

He catches a glimpse of Uther’s bodyguard riding on the back of Uther’s scarlet monster truck, looking at them with suspicion and dislike. Will whoops loudly and punches his fist into the air, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder that accompanies the gesture. He’s going to get on the truck this time and reach his goal.

“Watch out, Pendragon!” he shouts against the wind as they’re quickly closing in. “I’m coming to get you!”

The air in the cabin’s thick with heat and anger. Gwen’s glaring at Arthur from the passenger seat, Sophia’s comforting a crying Freya, and Vivian’s breathing slowly in and out while rubbing her belly. Elena sits cramped in the corner of the backseat behind Arthur, trying to keep her balance while Arthur drives. The seat’s more comfortable than the floor of the metal box they were stuck in earlier, but the driving’s not become better from being able to see what’s going on. In a way, Elena wishes she wouldn’t be able to observe everything. Seeing it just makes it worse.

Nevertheless, she keeps an eye on the wing mirror on the driver’s side, watching as cars come closer, then swerve to evade shooting from the rear of the truck. Every once in a while, Arthur’ll steer the truck hard right or left to escape a larger vehicle that’s trying to get close enough for Devils to jump over, and every time it happens, Elena clutches the door handle to keep from sliding every which way.

“He’s injured, and dehydrated. He’s probably already fallen off the truck!” Gwen finally snaps. Elena could tell that she’s been bursting to argue with Arthur ever since that scruffy man left the cabin.

“Then there’s no point in worrying about him anymore, is there?” Arthur says, barely paying attention to her as he replies, his eyes darting between the mirrors and the front. Elena doubts it’s a good idea to distract Arthur with an argument right now, but she can see why Gwen’s upset. They all know that Arthur’s not this careless or ruthless, and that it’s an act he puts on. The question is: for whose benefit?

They all know that he’s kind and caring underneath it all. It’s what makes them trust him in the first place. They wouldn’t be here with him if they thought he was going to betray them.

Gwen slaps his shoulder, and ends up bracing herself against it while sliding towards Arthur as he swerves hard right. Elena’s wrist starts to hurt from bracing herself all the time just to avoid bruises.

“What?” Arthur asks, exasperated. “He said he wanted to go, and I’d rather _he_ get shot at than any of _you_.”

That, Elena can understand. From a strategic point of view, it makes more sense for the scruffy man to be out there shooting at their pursuers than any of them. Not that they wouldn’t be able to shoot just as well – if not better. After all, they have no idea how good that man actually is. But their clothes are bright and would immediately identify them as both Uther’s trophies and an easy target. They’d be easier to hit, or at least easier to capture when their pursuers know where they are.

Another sudden swerve, this time to the left, and Gwen loses her balance as she slips down the seat towards the passenger door. She hisses in pain but bites down on a shout or any other sound. Arthur doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s got a tight grip on the steering wheel, and never takes his eyes off the track except to check the mirrors. Then he glances in Gwen’s direction and Elena can see in the rearview mirror that he’s wincing. For a moment, she thinks it’s because he noticed that Gwen’s rubbing her bruised arm, but he doesn’t say anything about it, and that’s when Elena cranes her neck to see what’s visible in the wing mirror on the left side – only, there’s no more mirror left, which explains Arthur’s reaction.

Elena turns back to watch the other wing, and just about catches sight of another car slowing before it’s swallowed by a cloud of dust. Another one takes its place almost immediately, and more shots can be heard.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Arthur says into the relative quiet. He doesn’t sound too convinced, and if Elena could see his eyes, she’s sure she’d see the uncertainty in them, but Elena’s been watching the rear of the truck and she thinks that Arthur’s right, even if he doesn’t believe it.

“He got this far already, he’ll be fine,” Arthur adds, now clearly reassuring himself that he didn’t send a defenceless man to his death, and Elena reaches out to touch his left shoulder.

“He’s doing well,” she says, and Arthur nods briskly.

Elena leans back in her seat again, eyes darting back to the mirror.

Another vehicle’s managed to get close enough and one of the Devils is trying to jump on. Elena can just about make out brown hair and an angrily determined grimace before the vehicle suddenly catches fire in a blaze of white light before it topples over onto its side.

She swallows. They’d agreed that there shouldn’t be any unnecessary killings, but she knows the Devils and Uther wouldn’t hesitate one moment to deal the killing blow when they got the chance.

It’s weird, though. She didn’t think any kind of bullet produced that kind of light, let alone explode a car. Even if it hit it directly, there’d be no fire without a spark. It makes no sense that the car suddenly combusted.

Arthur abruptly swerves again, and Elena almost falls onto Vivian. Sophia’s hissing angry expletives at Arthur, insulting him and his driving while he evades two more cars. After he almost gets hit by a bullet that he was just about able to block with his right arm, he snaps at Sophia to shut up.

“Unless you want me to stop and let them get you, I’ll keep doing what I can to get us out of here alive even if bruised,” he shouts over his shoulder at her, and Freya physically flinches while Vivian rolls her eyes.

Sophia, for her part, does mostly shut up, and only quietly mutters under her breath that it might just be Arthur’s driving that’ll get them killed. Elena’s pretty sure, Arthur hasn’t heard.

“Shit,” Arthur curses loudly, and for a moment, Elena thinks he’s going to round on Sophia again, but instead he glances at Gwen.

“Running low on fuel. If we don’t get a chance to fill the tank soon, we’ll stop no matter what I do,” he explains.

Gwen’s eyes go wide, but she nods resolutely. “I’ll go,” she says, and before Arthur can do or say anything to stop her, Gwen’s climbed out of the passenger door.

Elena’s got a bad feeling about this. It’s dangerous for them outside, for one thing, and Elena dislikes the idea of them splitting up for another.

She climbs into the passenger seat and turns to look out the window without actually leaning out. She can’t see Gwen anymore but she trusts that Gwen knows what she’s doing.

They just have to get through this last stretch. Once they’re beyond Cenred’s border, they’ll be free. They can find different clothes to wear, hopefully, and properly arm themselves. Elena might find her own car, or at least take a driving shift while Arthur gets some rest. It’s been so long since she’s steered any vehicle or fired a gun, or even just had a proper fist fight.

She leans forward, clinging to the back of the seat to keep her balance whenever the truck swerves, and watches the side of the truck for any signs of Gwen’s return.

It’s his lucky day indeed. He’s on the truck, although just barely. The car he’d been on had exploded only seconds after he’d jumped across and he’d almost lost his grip on the side of the tank, just barely managing to duck and get under the thing instead. Lucky to be alive to complete his plan, and then he’s found an open hatch into a compartment inside the tank. Not only would it be the perfect hiding place, but there’s also another opening leading into a vent and from what he can see, it goes all the way to the front of the tank.

With any luck, it’ll get him close enough to Pendragon to execute his plan.

Will grins and starts crawling.

Gwen knows it’s a high risk to be outside but she couldn’t stay inside the cab and do nothing. This is something that needs doing, and Arthur can’t be the one to do it, and the skinny man is who knows where, hopefully still alive and defending them. Why he’s doing it in the first place is a mystery to Gwen but she won’t deny that it feels good to have another ally – no matter how they acquired him.

Sand’s getting everywhere and keeping a tight grip on the few handholds there are out here isn’t easy, but Gwen’s stronger than she looks and she used to climb a lot when she was younger. It’s not something you forget how to do easily.

The back of the cab is almost secluded. Not that the bullets couldn’t reach her here, but one would have to shoot it with more intent. She’s standing on the vent that leads into their hiding place in the tank. She’s slowly burning the soles of her feet on the hot metal, and cursing yet again that she doesn’t even have shoes. Well, Sophia has a pair of worn boots, and Elena has a pair of shoes with more holes in them than there’s leather left. Gwen regrets not asking Sophia to borrow the boots because they really would’ve come in handy right about now as she awkwardly dances from foot to foot. She manages to get the canister out of the toolbox that’s welded to the back of the cab, though, and then carefully manoeuvres closer to the fuel tank cap. She should’ve unscrewed it before getting the canister, because it’s hard to do with just one hand, but she eventually manages even though Arthur screwed it on tight, and it takes her several minutes to loosen it.

A bullet glances off the back of the cabin above her head, and she ducks her head instinctively. She knows they don’t have that far to go anymore, but she wishes they were already beyond the border. They’re already more than halfway there, and as long as they can make it across, they can stop worrying about getting shot, and then refill the tank properly before moving further north.

All they have to do is get past the wall first, and then buy fuel back from Cenred because they’re giving him the pod as toll. She also knows that, as far as Cenred’s concerned, Arthur will be travelling alone in his truck, or the price would’ve been much higher.

She grits her teeth as she steadies the canister while the last drops empty into the tank. Her feet are killing her, and she’s probably coming out of this with painful blisters on the soles of her feet.

However, it’s still better than breaking down just before the border, and falling back into Uther’s hands. She failed once to cross, she doesn’t want it to happen again.

There’s a sound of metal scraping on metal, and Gwen presses one hand to her ear to shield it from the horrible noise. She almost loses her grip on the canister, but manages to steady it at the last moment. She doesn’t want to waste any of the petrol.

At the citadel, the girls had talked about the border often, wishing they could get there and across. They’d been talking about Manchester too, trading what little knowledge they each had, and Gwen had told Sophia that Elyan had heard that “chester” was another word for child molesters. They’d both agreed that it was a fitting name for a terrible place with terrible people, but then Alice had set them down and slowly and gently explained that the city had existed long before the purge and got its name from somewhere else.

_“It’s from the Latin name of the place,” she’d said. “The Romans Latinised the old Albionic name to Mancunium, which later turned into Manchester. The original name was something like mamma-ceaster.” She’d smiled at the girls. “It means ‘fort of the mother’.”_

Remembering it now makes Gwen smile wryly. How a place with such a beautiful name could be turned into the very opposite of what it stood for was beyond her. But then again, this whole world isn’t what it’s supposed to be anymore from what Alice had told them.

At least once they’re beyond Uther’s reach, they’ll be free from that dictator. Arthur’s bossing them around now, but Gwen knows he takes no pleasure from it. He does it because it’s a necessity, and because one of them has to be the leader in this. Since he’s the one driving, and the one who organised the whole escape, it makes sense that it’s him. That, and Arthur just has a commanding presence about him. One that isn’t autocratic and inhuman like Uther’s.

Gwen doesn’t mind following Arthur’s orders as much, although there are moments when she wishes she didn’t have to. Like when he sends people into danger just because he cares about them less than about others. She knows it was the best solution, but Arthur had no way of knowing that that skinny man would actually be able to defend them. He’s half-starved and dehydrated, as well as anemic. That he was able to stand up, let alone climb out of the cab is impressive, and now he’s defending the truck – them – for what?

She stores the canister back in the box at the back of the cab, and carefully moves back towards the side. More shots ring out, closer to her again, and then a thumping noise just behind her catches her attention. She looks up just in time to see someone jumping down between the tank and the cab. She’s got the gun halfway out of the holster before she realises it’s the skinny man.

He’s sweaty, and even dirtier than before, and his eyes shine bright blue when they catch hers. She offers him a relieved smile, then nods towards the front of the cab to indicate that she was going there too. He nods back at her, and lets her go ahead.

Her feet are burning from the metal, and more than anything she wants to sit down and dunk them into cold water. Not that that’s an option any time soon, but it’s a nice fantasy.

One in which she gets so lost that she doesn’t realise that between leaving the cab and now, one of the footholds has been ripped off during the fighting going on around her.

One moment her right foot’s burning hot while she clings to the side of the cab, and in the next, she steps into thin air and falls forward. She has a fraction of a second to think _Oh_ , and then quickly closes her eyes because she doesn’t want to see the end.

In the moment that she realises she’s going to die, she remembers her mother’s smile, and her father’s booming laugh. He’d been gone long before Gwen, Elyan, and their mother tried to cross the border for the first time.

They hadn’t been able to pay the price that Cenred asked, but Elyan hadn’t given up hope of finding another way across the border, and so he’d gone back into the city, day after day, to search for a solution.

He’d just come back from an excursion when the Devils found them, killed their mother, and then took Gwen and Elyan back to Camelot. If Elyan had found another way, he’d never had the chance to tell Gwen.

 _At least now I’ll be free_ , she thinks when she drops off the ledge towards the enormous, rolling tyres. Maybe, if she’s lucky, she’ll break her neck and she’ll be dead before she gets run over.

It’s pure instinct that makes him reach out. He’s not fast enough to actually grab Gwen, but his magic does what his hand can’t.

Gwen’s suspended in mid-air, the wind tearing at her clothes and hair while Merlin concentrates on slowly moving her back onto the ledge. It feels like it’s taking ages, but it can’t have been more than a few seconds.

When she’s finally back on – more or less – safe ground, he lets her go and hopes he can explain it away by saying he actually grabbed her.

He needn’t have feared, though. Gwen doesn’t say anything, just gives him a look over her shoulder, and a nod, then resumes her climb back into the cabin. As soon as she’s got the passenger door open, pale arms pull her inside, and Merlin follows carefully behind.

The front seat is crowded. The not-pregnant blonde’s taken Merlin’s seat, and so Merlin opts to climb into the back behind Arthur. He’s not sure he likes being there, but at least Arthur can’t glare at him out of the corner of his eye anymore.

That’s when Merlin realises that Arthur can now glare at him in the wing mirror. Which he does right away.

“Ran out o’ bullets,” Merlin says as loudly as he can. His voice is returning, and after he’s drunk some more water from a skin that Gwen handed him – he can feel her eyes burning into him and he hopes she won’t tell the others about what happened outside – he feels that he should be able to talk more easily now. If he chooses to say anything at all. It’s not like there’s much for him to say. He’s not going to talk about himself, and he doubts he has much to contribute to whatever they’ve got planned, so it’s best to just keep his mouth shut.

The truck seems to be gaining ground, at least. The attacks are coming much more infrequently and never make it all the way up to the cabin anymore. Merlin likes to think that that’s in large part to his contribution at the rear. It hopefully scared some of them off after the third car exploded suddenly.

He tries not to dwell on how many people he’s killed doing that, but it’s not like he’s ever been good at keeping his mind away from negative thoughts.

The life he’s lived, it’s always been kill or be killed – unless he managed to avoid fights altogether, which he usually did. And it’s not like he mourns the truly awful people he’s had to kill in order to save himself or someone else. There was that guy who killed nomads to eat them, and the one who hunted people to collect their skin because he thought that if he built a temple from human skin, the Gods would return to earth and rejuvenate the world.

Killing those beasts – Merlin doesn’t even think of them as human – didn’t rob him of his sleep.

But those casualties that just happened to stand on the wrong side of the fight – like those drivers, who were most likely brainwashed into believing what Uther preached, who’d never known a better life, and who’ve never had a real choice in the matter – those matter to Merlin more than he likes. He thinks about the wasted potential, and now that his magic’s returning to him, it’s as if every death he caused, directly or indirectly, has chipped away a large chunk of his soul.

Before his magic returned, Merlin thought that big, empty hole inside him was just the absence of magic and hope, but now that he’s got at least one of the two back and the hole didn’t close up even just a little bit….

Merlin’s on the verge of falling into a restless doze when the sharp scrape of metal on metal jars him awake. It takes him a sluggish few seconds to realise that there must be a hatch in the floor of the cabin, and that someone has opened it and jumped right into the middle of the cabin.

What finally wakes him up is the sound of a shot being fired, and that’s when Merlin’s eyes focus on the man who received Merlin’s non-consensual blood donation.

The gun he’s holding is aimed straight at Arthur’s head, and yet he managed to miss. All Merlin can feel is the fizzling ends of a surge of power, and then there’s no time to dwell on the magical miracle of what just happened, because the man’s already pulling the trigger again. Merlin’s eyes light up gold. The man’s arm yanks up, missing Arthur yet again, but the bullet glances off the heavily armoured metal frame of the cabin, and everyone ducks while it ricochets wildly.

Half a second later, the angry blonde’s launching herself across the pregnant one at the man, screaming furiously and wrestling the gun from his hand.

Before the man has any chance to throw the knife he’s pulled from his sleeve, a third shot rings out.

There’s deathly silence in the cabin except for Arthur’s ragged breathing and the sound of the engine, then the man slumps forward and falls onto the floor, blood trickling sickly from a hole in his forehead.

Merlin looks up and finds Gwen, arms still outstretched and holding the man’s own gun. She must’ve grabbed it after Sophia got it away from the man, and now the man is dead.

The tiny brunette opens the door on her side of the back seat, and with the angry one’s and Gwen’s help, Merlin pushes the dead body out. He feels no remorse for this man. Whatever his reasons were to hate Arthur, he would’ve killed half a dozen innocent people just to get his revenge. This man’s death won’t keep him up at night, and as his pale, lifeless eyes stare up at Merlin, Merlin feels nothing but revulsion for this man’s deeds.

The last thing Merlin sees, as the body topples from the truck onto the old concrete road, is a large scar across the man’s right forearm spelling a name.

 _Will_ , Merlin thinks, _I hope you didn’t believe in heaven, because you definitely aren’t going there._

No one says anything for several long moments after the brunette’s pulled the door shut again. She’s bundled up in the angry blonde’s arms again, but not crying at the moment. From what Merlin can tell, that’s unusual.

The pregnant blonde’s doing another breathing exercise while pretending not to be supremely uncomfortable, so Merlin decides he’ll squish into the front seat with Gwen and the third blonde to give the pregnant blonde more space. He thinks he ought to ask their names so he can stop thinking about them by their most prominent characteristics, and promises himself to do it the moment he’s sitting back down.

Gwen’s leaning over the back of the seat, staring out the window of the back door. Merlin recognises the look on her face. He has never seen it on his own, but he’s sure that that’s what he looks like after he’s had to kill someone to protect another person. He nods at Gwen, and tries to smile but fails. He’s out of practice, it would seem, but Gwen doesn’t mind. She smiles back, sad and pained, and sighs.

He gestures for her to move up so he can move into the front seat with her and the third blonde, and Gwen obligingly starts to budge up to make room for Merlin next to the door, when she suddenly freezes.

Merlin’s about to say he can just sit on the floor between the backseat and the front seat if she’d rather have more space, but then he catches sight of Gwen’s face again.

It’s frozen in shock as she slowly moves away from the third blonde again and holds up her own hand to her eyes. Merlin doesn’t understand what Gwen’s getting at at first, but then he looks at Gwen’s hand. It’s shining with something wet – something that looks an awful lot like blood.

Slowly he lets his eyes wander from Gwen’s hand to the third blonde, and can’t hold back the shocked gasp once his mind catches on to what he’s seeing.

The blonde’s looking out the front window, her body relaxed, and her face still. Her hair, previously a mess of a golden halo – almost like Arthur, just much longer, and not as fine as the pregnant blonde’s, or as wavy as the angry one’s – lays limp and dully now, spilling over the back of the seat, and the strands that got caught dyed a sickly red colour.

There’s a thick trickle of blood slowly congealing on the side of her neck, trickling down her entire left side, slowly seeping into the cushion of the seat. Her left hand’s fallen down from where she must’ve been clutching the wound, because it’s covered entirely in blood as well.

Merlin doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to guess at what happened, but one of the bullets must’ve caught her before she had the chance to take cover, and while all of them were concentrating on getting that man away from Arthur, and then his body out of the truck as quickly as possible, no one had been paying attention to the one who was slowly bleeding out in the front seat, mere centimetres away from them.

Gwen lets out a pained wail and grabs the blonde, pulling her into her arms and rocking her as she repeats her name over and over between anguished sobs.

 _At least now I know her name_ , Merlin thinks.

Gwen’s scream finally makes the rest of them take note. Arthur whips his head around fast enough to break his neck, and his right hand drags the wheel along, driving them almost off the road. Gwen falls back against the door, still clutching Elena’s body, but not even the hard hit against her back snap Gwen out of it.

Neither does the angry blonde’s furious yell or Arthur’s confused shout.

Merlin closes his eyes briefly, then slides into the front seat, almost slipping in the pool of blood. The coppery scent, along with the stench of urine and faeces makes him gag, and it takes him a couple of deep breaths through the mouth before he can move again.

His first attempts to loosen Gwen’s grip on Elena are fruitless, and eventually he looks around for help, finding none in the angry blonde, who’s spitting hateful threats against Uther, and all men in general, nor in the tiny brunette who’s watching everything with a distant, clouded look in her eyes.

He’s seen that look before. The brunette’s gone to a different place in her mind to escape the reality of the situation. There’s no breaking her out of it now.

Finally he turns enough to catch the pregnant blonde’s eyes. They shine with emotion and unshed tears, but as soon as she realises he’s looking at her, she blinks quickly a few times, and wipes her cheeks with her wrists.

A shouted argument between her and the angry blonde ensues, during which Merlin learns that the pregnant one is called Vivian, the angry one’s name is Sophia, and the small brunette is Freya. He really wishes he’d had the chance to ask them, instead of finding out in the middle of this tragedy.

In the end, Sophia and Freya move onto the other side of the seat, behind Arthur, and Vivian kneels slowly on the floor between back and front seat.

It takes her a long time to get Gwen to let go of Elena.

Gwen’s covered in blood when Merlin heaves the cooling body off of her. Gwen’s stopped crying too, for the most part, and is now quietly sniffling in a curled up position.

Merlin swallows. He has no idea what to do, and instinctively looks to Arthur.

His face is a stony mask, betraying nothing of what he feels. Merlin doubts he’s unaffected, but maybe, like the pregnant one, he believes that he needs to be strong for the others.

Arthur must’ve felt Merlin looking at him, because he turns his head and meets his eyes before dropping his gaze to Elena. He swallows thickly, giving away much more about his emotional state than he probably intended.

“We need to hide her,” Arthur says at length after he’s turned his eyes back onto the road. “Cenred can’t see her when we cross the border.”

Merlin looks around the cabin, and the only option seems to be the floor. In front of the front seat seems large enough, but the legroom between backseat and front would really work better to hide her more efficiently.

However, he does not intend to awkwardly drag her across the back of the seat. Not only would it leave questionable stains on more of the cushions, it would also feel even more disrespectful than what he’s about to do.

He looks back at Arthur, and again Arthur turns as if he can feel Merlin looking at him.

Merlin stares at him, and just says “Floor.”

Arthur grimaces, but nods. Apparently, he doesn’t like it any more than Merlin, but what needs must. They’re not going to throw her out like they did with the man.

The man whose bullet killed her.

Merlin clamps down on that train of thought and instead lowers her body as gently onto the floor as he can, sending a quick prayer of thanks to whatever deity might still be alive in this forsaken world that Elena wasn’t taller. Having to contort her body would’ve been worse than the indignity of the situation as it is.

There are stains all over the seat now that Merlin gets the chance to properly look, but Vivian’s apparently had the same thought as him, because she’s torn off a piece of the fabric she’s wearing, and is wetting it with water from the skin. It’s the same one from which Merlin drank earlier, and even though he’s still thirsty, he doesn’t think he’ll want any water from that particular skin anymore.

Vivian hands the rag to Merlin to do the actual cleaning, and he goes to work without complaint. The skin’s empty long before he’s done, and he throws four ruined rags out of the open window after he’s finished. The smell’s slowly airing out, thanks to all the windows being open now, and it’s just his and Gwen’s clothes now that need a washing. Or a burning.

Sophia’s stopped ranting a while ago, and Gwen’s sniffling has stopped as well. She sits staring blindly into the distance, much like Freya’s, and her feet are propped up on the seat so she won’t accidentally kick Elena’s body.

Merlin’s about to ask how far they still have to go when Arthur speaks.

“We’re getting close. You should get back into the hatch.”

Merlin’s been wondering where the hatch was leading, but apparently it’s a hiding place that was meant for smuggling things – or people. Maybe Arthur even built it just for the purpose of getting the girls out of Camelot. And then some terrible bastard abused it to bring death to them instead.

He hears a pained moan and turns just in time to see Vivian slipping down the hatch and out of sight.

Sophia follows, gently guiding Freya. She still looks like her mind’s miles away, but she goes where Sophia directs her.

The only ones left are Gwen and Merlin now, and Arthur shoots Merlin a significant look.

Merlin sighs and turns to Gwen, gently pulling her arms away from her legs.

“We’re reaching the border. You have to hide so we can get across,” he tells her softly. It’s the most he’s spoken in a long time but his throat only hurts a little bit anymore. It would seem that with the return of his magic, he’s gained a few healing powers.

She looks at him blankly. “I can’t leave her,” she says finally.

“You’re not leaving her,” Merlin replies. “You’re making sure we’re all getting across the border safely.”

That seems to do the trick, and with one last look at Elena’s pale face, Gwen climbs over the back of the seat, and then down into the hatch.

“You too,” Arthur says as soon as she’s disappeared. “I’m supposed to be alone.”

Merlin hesitates. He hates small, confined spaces. He’d much rather lay between the seats, too, than climb down that hatch.

He’s about to suggest that, when they hear shots firing outside.

Arthur curses angrily – or at least Merlin thinks that’s what he did, it’s hard to tell over the sudden noise – and checks the right wing mirror. Merlin cranes his neck to see what’s going on as well.

It would seem that while they were all dealing with Elena’s loss, Uther and his allies got their second wind and caught up with them again.

“Shit,” Arthur swears – this time Merlin’s sure it was Arthur and not a trick of his ears – and then hits the accelerator hard. The truck almost lurches forward with the sudden burst of speed and Merlin almost falls over and onto the body in the legroom.

“Hide already!” Arthur yells, and their eyes meet again, just for a second, but it’s enough for Merlin to detect a hint of – what? Fear? Desperation?

Whatever it is, it resonates within him, and sends a jolt through his nerve endings. Arthur flinches almost unnoticeably, if not for the tightening of his jaw and the way his nostrils flared for just a moment.

It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, like the sharp pain from the tattoo needle, nor was it like the burning agony of the branding iron. If anything, it was a pleasant but intense tingling sensation, something like anticipation and excitement.

 _Emrys_ , a voice echoes inside his head, and Merlin quickly looks away to hide his surprise. Let Arthur think that Merlin’s intimidated by him, Merlin doesn’t care. He’d rather Arthur think that than learn that Merlin hears voices inside his head.

 _Emrys_ , the voice calls again, fainter this time, and Merlin pretends he didn’t hear it at all.

It’s not the first time he’s heard that voice, of course, but it’s been so long since he last heard it, he thought it was his imagination playing tricks on him. Maybe it was. After all, he was only five at the time, and he lost his magic almost right after he’d heard it. He’s not especially keen on losing what he regained only these last few hours.

The voice doesn’t come again, thankfully, but the tingling is gone as well. Merlin tries not to be disappointed about the latter, and without arguing any further, he climbs over the back of the seat, and quickly drops down into the hatch. He has no desire to find out where the tunnel leads, and he hopes that staying low and out of sight will be enough. He’s never been a fan of tight spaces, but especially not now after spending years mostly locked inside a small cage at the citadel.

From his position, Merlin can’t see anything but the sky out of the windows, but he thinks he can feel Arthur slowing down. He hopes that means that they’re approaching the border, and not that they’re running out of fuel again just moments from their destination.

“You know how to drive?” Arthur asks suddenly without taking his eyes off the road. He reaches down and gathers some of the grease from the base of the steering wheel.

Merlin nods and watches as Arthur smears the grease on his forehead, all the way down to his blond eyebrows.

“Well?” Arthur prompts, and Merlin realises Arthur of course hadn’t seen him nod.

“I do,” he confirms quickly.

“What’s your name?” Arthur asks, and when Merlin doesn’t answer right away this time, Arthur glances over his shoulder. “Your name!” he repeats more harshly.

Merlin shrugs. He’s got no reason not to tell Arthur. He knows all of their names by now, and it’s not like he’s giving away anything by sharing it.

“Merlin,” he says, but not quite loud enough to be heard over the noise of the engine.

“Mervin?” Arthur asks, sounding incredulous. In fact, he darts another glance over his shoulder to look at Merlin in disbelief. “I suppose you’ve had bigger issues than a terrible name,” he says, “like the size of your ears.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. Arthur, clearly, is an arse.

“Anyway, _Mervin_ , I’m supposed to be alone. I made a deal to give us safe passage and have the border closed to any pursuers for a day. If anything goes wrong, I want you to drive the truck. Gwen knows where we’re going, she’ll navigate. Do not wait for me, don’t look back, just go as soon as you get the signal, no matter the cost.”

Arthur turns in his seat as far as he can while keeping both hands on the steering wheel. The truck’s slowed down to a crawl now, Merlin thinks.

“When I call your name, you drive, are we clear?” Arthur repeats.

Merlin keeps his eyes locked on Arthur’s. The same underlying emotion of fear and desperation, or whatever it is that makes Arthur care so much about the fate of these women shines through the determination, and Merlin realises he’s nodding and mouthing ‘yes’ before he’s thought it through.

Arthur nods once, then turns back around. “Stay low. We’re here.”

Merlin swallows again, tasting bile and dust, and stays as far down in the hatch as he can stand without panicking. Maybe things will go fine and they’ll get out of here without problem.

 _And maybe, afterwards, it’ll rain real water instead of acid_ , he thinks bitterly. _That’s just as likely._

Arthur’s not entirely sure what just happened when he and Mervin locked eyes, but he’s sure he doesn’t need the distraction. Whatever it was, it’ll have to wait until they’re all safely past Cenred’s border.

 _Not all_ , a nasty voice inside his head reminds him. _You already lost Elena. Who else is going to get left behind before you’ve reached your goal?_

Arthur clenches his jaw, and slows the truck to a crawl as he approaches the wall, and checks the mirror for their pursuers. The quick burst of speed he forced from the truck gave them a short headstart again, but he can just make out the small shapes of the cars amidst clouds of dust. He can only hope that he’ll be let through quickly now.

A thick iron gate mark the only passage into the upper half of the country. It’s not the first time Arthur’s seen it, but it’ll be the first time he’ll get to go beyond. From what he’s heard, there are more and higher mountains up there, and the people live freer if just as poorly.

When he still lived with Uther, Arthur visited Manchester sometimes, and Cenred almost always gave him and Uther a tour of his ever improving, ever growing wall.

He knows that it was Cenred’s father, Lord Essetir, who started building it. While he and Uther had neither been allies nor foes before the purge, Essetir read the signs correctly and prepared himself. He’d bought estates all along where the wall stands now, and began construction right away. By the time the purge was over, the wall in the east was half finished.

After his death, Cenred continued his legacy, completing his father’s work. While he holds no power north or south of his wall, he controls traffic in both directions – and that’s almost as good as controlling the areas themselves.

By exacting steep prices for passage, Cenred has become rich in a world where such things aren’t measured by money, but wares. Cenred has weapons and cars (from the Sarrum and the Oil Farm), he has food and water (from Camelot), and he has the power over who escapes to the relative freedom of the north, and who has to stay and live in fear of being enslaved, killed, or worse, in the south.

It’s not unusual for Cenred to demand a person in exchange for someone else’s passage. Enough people are desperate enough to condemn another human being to slavery for their own freedom.

“Such is the human condition,” Gaius had said, and Arthur had sworn to change humanity for the better.

Needless to say that Arthur utterly despises Cenred.

Of course you can take your chance and drive down into the ocean bed but only a few dare to do it. The water dried up a long time ago, and was replaced by a thick layer of near acidic salt. You need incredibly sturdy shoes or tyres to withstand that long enough to drive out far enough to go around the outposts of Cenred’s border patrol.

So, he’s glad that Cenred only demanded one hundred hectolitres of fuel for Arthur’s passage. Difficult it might have been to steal that much from right under Uther’s nose without anyone realising, but it had been worth it. Arthur’s life would’ve been forfeit, of course, had he been caught, but dying in Camelot simply hadn’t been an option – neither for himself and the prophecy, nor for what it would’ve meant for the girls he set out to free.

 _And look where it got them_ , the nasty voice whispers meanly inside his head. He closes his eyes for just a second, and when he opens them again, the voice is gone.

Instead, the gate looms, heavy and imposing. It’s never quite stopped making Arthur feel an impending sense of doom, no matter how often he’s been here before. Or maybe it’s only so bad now because there’s the body of a young woman hidden in the cabin, four living, breathing girls hidden in the tank, and a skinny, scruffy freeloader ducking low in the floor hatch.

_What could possibly go wrong?_

The gate opens just as Arthur gets close enough, and Arthur slowly drives onto the bridge, and then stops just behind the wall, far enough so that the gate can close again.

It makes a deep, booming sound when it closes, and in Arthur’s opinion, it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

He kills the engine and casts a surreptitious glance towards the hatch to check that Mervin’s still hidden, then gives the man a near imperceptible nod to signal that he should stay alert and ready. Mervin nods back and deliberately lowers himself further down into the hatch to show that he’s going to stay out of sight. Arthur wonders at the grimaces Mervin pulls as he sinks further down, but doesn’t have any time to dwell on it. Likely, it’s just Mervin’s dislike for Arthur.

Now that he’s got a contingency plan in place, he climbs out of the truck feeling more confident than before.

Until he sees Cenred approaching him.

It really shouldn’t be a surprise to see him here, even though usually Cenred doesn’t handle day to day business at the border passage. He’s got enough men doing the job to make sure that Cenred can enjoy himself in his little castle inside the city walls not too far away.

Unfortunately for Arthur, Arthur’s also a little bit infamous. Cenred knew of course who he is when Arthur went to negotiate with him. That’s part of why the price is so high. However, Arthur hadn’t bothered to tell Cenred when exactly to expect him, only a general time frame.

So either Cenred has been patrolling the border the entire time, or he’s got word elsewhere.

Albion – or what remains of it – doesn’t have any telecommunication left. They still have electricity, sure, but all the towers, signals, and so on have broken down and died away in the wake of the purge.

The only way to send word was to send a courier to deliver messages, and Uther must’ve sent one of his fastest to get to Cenred before Arthur could.

This complicates things massively, but as Arthur’s already learned in the past few hours, nothing goes the way he planned it on this journey.

“Arthur,” Cenred greets with a smile that’s as oily as his hair.

“Cenred,” Arthur replies, bowing his head to placate him. “I’ve brought what you asked for.”

Arthur gestures towards the rear of the truck where the fuel pod’s hitched. He’ll have to find a way to buy some of it back to refuel the tank once they’re off the bridge, but that’s the least of his problems right now.

“Of course you did,” Cenred says, smile widening. The leather outfit he wears creaks as he moves. There are no animals left in Albion, especially not ones whose skin could be used to make clothes. Cenred, however, is one of the richest men in Albion. It doesn’t surprise Arthur that he managed to find black leather trousers and a matching vest.

“You wouldn’t have dared to come here without what I asked for,” he goes on. He takes a few more steps forward and puts his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“No,” Arthur says. “I wouldn’t have.”

 _I would’ve found a way across the salt_ , he adds silently. Cenred never bargains. Either you pay or you stay where you are – if you’re lucky. If he was particularly looking forward to your payment, you’ll probably lose your life if you fail to deliver. And if Cenred thinks you’re trying to cheat him, you die especially painfully. Arthur’s known the rules of this border ever since he was old enough to understand the geography of Albion.

Fortunately for Cenred, getting across the salt that marks the former oceans is even harder than negotiating a price with Cenred. The salt burns through almost everything, and it does it quickly.

“I’ll just unhitch the pod for you and be on my way, then,” Arthur says, trying to move away from Cenred to do as he said. Cenred’s grip on his shoulder – the left one, Arthur notices – tightens significantly, and Arthur stays where he is.

“I think not,” Cenred says coolly, lips twisted into a smirk. “You see, the price went up since we last spoke.”

Arthur flexes his right hand. “What do you want?”

“You leave the entire truck behind, and you can leave on foot. I’ll let you fill a waterskin from the big tank, let you pack some of the dry bread you likely have on board, and then you can be on your way.”

Arthur levels Cenred with a sharp look. “I’d be dead within a few days. How’s this a fair trade?”

Cenred leans in even closer and laughs. “No one said anything about fair, Arthur. Either you agree to my terms, or you don’t. You can leave here alive and hope for the best, or you can lose more than that truck and everything inside it. It’s entirely your choice.”

A blade pokes Arthur’s side – not enough to cut through flesh, but a clear warning sign all the same.

There’s a glint in Cenred’s eyes that tells Arthur just how much Cenred knows about what’s kept inside that truck.

He swallows in an attempt to wet his throat, but finds it as dry as it was before.

Now, there’s only one option left, one that’s most likely to get him killed, but hopefully not the girls. If Arthur can at least save them like he promised – like he swore – then that will have to be enough to fulfill his great destiny, or whatever is waiting for him in Avalon.

He swallows again, opens his mouth and—

“MERVIN!”

The blade against his side moves when Cenred jerks in surprise, and it cuts a fine line into Arthur’s skin. He doesn’t even feel the warm trickle of blood down his side because a handful of seconds later, the truck roars to live and the wheels start turning right next to where Arthur’s standing.

Before Cenred can regain enough composure to swing his knife at Arthur properly, Arthur’s pressed the small finger and thumb on his right hand together to extend the blade hidden inside his arm. Cenred’s eyes widen in shock when Arthur plunges it forward and neatly slits Cenred’s throat.

Artwork by [whimsycatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher), rebloggable on [tumblr](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/165458922678).

Cenred crumples to the ground, staining the concrete beneath Arthur’s feet red, and Arthur can feel bile rising in his throat at the sight of it. An unbidden image of Elena pops into his mind and Arthur has to force himself not to lose focus now.

Meanwhile, the truck’s starting to gain speed, and Arthur takes off at a run to catch up with it.

The whole thing would’ve been easier if Cenred’s men who were posted along the bridge’s edges weren’t trying to kill him for murdering their master. Arthur’s forced to lash out with his blade several more times, and he tries not to kill anyone, remembering the promise he made the girls not to take lives unnecessarily, but he’s not sure he manages.

Arthur has almost reached the back of the pod when an deafening crack sounds, and the entire bridge begins to shake. Arthur throws a glance back over his shoulder and is horrified by what he’s seeing.

The bridge is splitting into pieces, dragging everyone and everything down with it into the ravine. Men are screaming as they fall to their deaths, and the piece of road that Arthur and the truck are on is slowly but surely tilting downwards as well, making it harder and harder for Arthur to run to catch up with the truck.

The truck’s already reached the other side of the bridge, safely back on solid ground while Arthur’s still running uphill. Just before the last stretch of concrete thunders down into the canal, he jumps in a desperate attempt to reach the edge, begging whoever’s responsible for his fate to give him another chance to do right by the girls and this country.

Whoever it is must’ve heard him because in a surge of strength, he makes it across the chasm forming between the riverside and the edge of the broken bridge, and lands heavily on his feet, immediately letting himself fall and roll forwards to soften the landing.

The truck has stopped not too far away, and Mervin’s hanging out the driver’s side window when Arthur gets back to his feet.

“What the bloody fuck are you waiting for? GO!” Arthur yells, and Mervin quickly ducks back into the cabin and hits the accelerator. Arthur quickly sheathes his blade, and latches onto the rungs welded into the back of the fuel pod and climbs on.

Now, finally, he takes another long look at the collapsed ruins of what counts as the only passage across the border while the truck speeds away.

Arthur doesn’t understand what happened here. Maybe the construction had become fragile, and the heavy truck set it off. Whatever it was, though, it saved his and the girls’ lives, and cost many others.

He swallows thickly and lets his forehead rest against the heated metal of the pod.

His right arm’s covered in blood, and Arthur will have to take it off to clean it thoroughly in a little while. He had tried so hard not to kill anyone, knowing fully well that the girls wouldn’t like it. And then this happened and it had all been in vain. If he hadn’t injured so many of the soldiers, maybe they could’ve run to safety, just like him.

Arthur swallows thickly, tasting bile in his mouth again, and spits onto the road.

If nothing else, they now have definitely enough fuel to make it to Avalon.

“A one-eyed man could see that there’s no way getting around or above that wall,” Gwaine says, grinning cheerfully at Leon over his shoulder.

Three years is a long enough time to get used to the loss of one eye – especially when there are worse things that could’ve happened to you in all that time or before. Gwaine’s jokes haven’t improved over time, but Leon’s used to bad puns by now. Some days, they’re the only thing that cheer him up, and Gwaine never makes any fun of his lost eye when Leon’s in the wrong frame of mind to take it.

Maybe it’s because Gwaine himself still feels guilty for it that he’s sensitive to when he shouldn’t tease. It doesn’t matter how often Leon tells him that he’s never blamed Gwaine even once, Gwaine will still apologise sometimes, in the middle of the night when they’re pressed close together all three of them after one of them’s had a nightmare.

Leon would always tell him that there’s nothing to be sorry for, that all of them lost parts of themselves, one way or the other, that day, and that it’s not Gwaine’s guilt to shoulder.

Sometimes Gwaine believes him – for a while.

So, Leon grins back at him and nods. “A one-eyed man can. We’ll find another way.”

“Why can’t we just pass at the gate?” Elyan asks, which earns him a dirty look from Gwaine, but before Gwaine can make a comment that would likely only antagonise Elyan more, Lance cuts in. He’s one of the few people Leon knows who’s got the uncanny talent to defuse any situation and calm down Gwaine with just a few words and touches until Gwaine’s nearly docile. Or as docile as he ever gets.

“It would take us directly in the path of Uther and the others,” he explains. “We’ve done well to keep a good distance away from them for now and we’re thinking that Arthur probably made a deal with Cenred to keep the border closed for a while after he’s gone through to make sure Uther can’t follow. We can’t get through ahead of Arthur, and most likely no chance for it afterwards. At least not for a day or so.”

“Besides,” Leon says. “I doubt we’d be able to pay the price. If we’re lucky he’d only ask for the car and our provisions, and if we’re unlucky he asks for one of us. Neither is a good option.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’re heading for the smugglers tunnel near Manchester,” Elyan says, nodding to himself.

Everyone’s eyes turn on Elyan. It’s a good thing there’s nothing but open wasteland in their way or Gwaine might’ve crashed them into something before he realises that he shouldn’t be staring at Elyan instead of keeping his eyes front.

“What smugglers tunnel?” Lance finally asks.

“The one under Manchester,” Elyan says, then looks at them curiously. “Wait, you didn’t know about it?”

“I think it’s safe to say that we didn’t, no,” Leon says quietly. “Why don’t you tell us what you know.”

“Oh, uh.” Elyan frowns. “Before Gwen and I got snatched we wanted to pass the border, but Cenred’s price was too high and we couldn’t. I spent a day or two in Manchester, trying to figure out if there was another way, and finally I found out that there’s a tunnel that goes under the city, and comes out on the other side of the city walls. Someone showed me the entrance but before Gwen, mum and I could use it, we were captured.”

“Does Gwen know about it?” Gwaine asks, glancing at Elyan for a moment.

“No,” Elyan says. “I didn’t want to tell them until I was sure, and then it was too late.”

“So she and the others definitely didn’t use it,” Lance concludes. “That’s our advantage. Do you remember where the entrance is? And does Cenred know about it?”

“I don’t think he does,” Elyan says, shaking his head. “If he did, he would’ve closed it up, or guarded it or something. He wouldn’t leave it open for people to sneak past him.”

“Where’s the entrance?” Leon asks again. “Can we drive through it or do we have to walk?”

Elyan contemplates the question. “We should be able to squeeze through in the car,” he says finally. “I don’t exactly remember how big it is but I think others drove their cars through as well. The entrance is in the old suburb of the city. I should be able to find it, yeah. We’re actually getting close to the general area, that’s why I thought you’d been heading there.”

“Direct me,” Gwaine says, looking around as if to look for a street sign that points towards a secret tunnel. Even if there’d be any street signs left, Leon’s pretty sure that none of them would say that. Then again, he might be wrong. It’s been two decades since he’s seen street signs. Plus, he’s never been to Manchester before, so who knows if they didn’t use to have a sign like that.

Gwaine gives up on looking for remnants of urban civilisation, and instead keeps his eyes strictly in front while Elyan tells him where to go.

Leon tunes out while the two in the front bicker, but he doesn’t have any time to get lost in his thoughts again before Lance leans in close to speak quietly.

“The kid’s a real asset,” he murmurs, and Leon can’t help the fond smile that steals onto his lips.

“He is,” he agrees. “He’s much smarter than he makes himself look. Rather clever move, if you ask me.”

Lance nods. “It is. I’m glad he’s on our side.”

“Me too,” Leon agrees. “I doubt there ever was a chance of him following Uther willingly, though. Not after his mother was killed and especially not after his sister was taken as a wife. You’ve seen how quick he’s to defend her even two years later.”

They both look at Elyan who’s doing his best to direct Gwaine, while Gwaine does his best to argue every direction he’s given.

Lance sighs, and pulls away to speak to Gwaine instead, probably telling him to stay calm and do what Elyan says so they can get out of this shithole of a country any time soon. Not that Lance would phrase it like that, of course, but that’s what Gwaine would take away from it in the end.

Gwaine doesn’t trust easily, and the only reason he’s going where Elyan tells him is because Leon invited Elyan to go with them, and Gwaine trusts Leon.

It takes a little while longer, and Leon’s finally beginning to doze off now that Gwaine’s had to slow down the car while Elyan searches for landmarks he recognises. Of course that’s when Elyan whoops and loudly announces: “We’re here!”

It looks like a regular traffic tunnel, designed to divert traffic from aboveground to underground to ensure easy flow of traffic in all directions. The only difference being that this tunnel is boarded up and obviously unused.

“Looks like Cenred found it first,” Gwaine says, hitting the steering wheel. Elyan gets out of the car and jogs to the blocked entrance. He’s running his hands over the concrete wall on the side as if searching for something. He must find it because a few minutes later, gears creak with years of disuse, and the barricade lifts like a garage door.

All three of them laugh in disbelief – until they realise that the tunnel behind the gate is pitch black. Leon swallows. “Tell me the headlights work,” he says.

“No idea,” Gwaine replies truthfully, and flicks the switch to see if they do. To Leon’s immense relief, a beam of light illuminates the dark, and Gwaine sighs in agreement.

“It’s a good thing we didn’t take the bikes. I know for a fact that none of the headlights work on those,” Lance comments.

Leon shudders at the idea of having to navigate through the tunnel in the dark.

The gate’s completely open, and Elyan’s waving for them to get in, so Gwaine slowly guides the car inside. He stops just inside the tunnel, and waits for Elyan to lower the gate behind them again. It gets even darker, only a few beams of sunlight streaming in through the gaps between the boards.

The passenger door creaks, then slams shut, and Elyan’s back in his seat.

“Let’s go,” Lance says, and Gwaine puts the car into gear and slowly drives. They’re mostly silent, not even Elyan and Gwaine bickering anymore. It’s making Leon more nervous than he’d be from being underground in the dark in the first place, but he doesn’t have any idea what to say either.

He doesn’t know how far they got already or how long they’ve been in this tunnel, let alone how much further they still have to go. Elyan’s never made the complete trip, and Leon doesn’t know this area at all so there’s no telling how large Cenred’s Manchester is. What he’s relatively sure of is that at the slow pace Gwaine’s keeping – probably out of caution so he won’t accidentally run into a wall or a gaping chasm in the ground – it’s going to take them ages to cover the distance regardless of how far it is.

Leon’s contemplating encouraging Gwaine to step on it because sitting in here is doing nothing for his fear of eternal blindness, and he’d rather end up crashing into a wall than lose his mind, but before he can voice any of this, there’s a low, rumbling sound, and small debris rains onto the roof of the car.

“Something big’s collapsing,” Gwaine says, and Leon remembers that Gwaine once told him what it sounded like when London literally broke apart while he and thousands of people were hiding in the underground tunnels for the London tube.

Whatever it was, it might happen again, and next time it might be more than pebbles falling down on them. That, at least, is something they all seem to agree on, because in the next moment, Elyan says: “Better get a move on before the tunnel caves in, then.”

It’s what gets Gwaine to step on the accelerator, so Leon doesn’t complain that the sudden lurch forward makes him hit his head on the rear window. Even with his head hurting, he’s glad to be out of this creepy tunnel soon. Losing one eye makes you think about losing the other, and dark spaces definitely aren’t on the top of the list of Leon’s favourite places to be ever since he’s received this lifelong preview of vision impairment.

Lance finds Leon’s hand and laces their fingers. Leon smiles into the dimness and squeezes Lance’s hand gratefully. As long as the three of them get out of this together, he’ll be fine.

When they first realised that the bridge was gone, Percy thought that finally, Uther would have to turn back and let Arthur and the girls go.

This only goes to show that Percy, as experienced as he is in his young years, still has a lot to learn.

Uther, upon realising that, one, the bridge is gone, two, Cenred is dead – they heard several eyewitnesses from the guard posts on the wall saying that Arthur cut his throat – and three, the border is now both wide open and vulnerable as well as unpassable, took the only thing a man of his greed would: He took it over.

Percy kept himself from groaning in despair the moment Uther announced that he claims the border wall and would personally oversee the demolition of the wall to fill in the canal to create a new passage.

“There shall be no more border between us. Albion will be reunited!” he shouted from where he stood on the hood of his car. And his followers cheered while Percy kept his stony expression that everyone mistakes for seriousness, and concern for Uther’s life, when in truth it’s the mask he wears so no one will notice the disgust and hatred he feels for this tyrant.

Uther’s made short work of his promise, and immediately directed the nearest Devils to gather as many of Cenred’s soldiers and conscript them into Uther’s force. He even went as far as sending out vehicles along the wall to inform every single one of Cenred’s men that their leader is dead and that they better join the Devils unless they want to die. To make sure that they believed the Devils, every vehicle carried one soldier from the border gate who saw the whole thing and could swear that the Devils spoke the truth.

Percy hates Uther, but he has to admit – albeit grudgingly – that he’s much smarter than is good for this country.

At the moment he’s assessing how to best get a working bridge in place. Likely he still intends to go after Arthur and the girls before getting onto his new project with the wall. Either way, so far Arthur’s escape has only made Uther more powerful.

 _I hope he knows what he’s doing_ , Percy thinks as he follows Uther at a respectful distance while he walks up and down along the edges of what’s left of the bridge.

Of course Percy thought about running away again. This is the best opportunity he’ll have by far. He’s as close to the wild parts of the north as he’ll get, Uther’s distracted, there’s still some chaos amongst the soldiers who previously answered to Cenred – Uther probably wouldn’t realise Percy’s gone until Percy had a bit of a head start.

Unfortunately, the moment Percy started to consider it seriously, the realisation dawned that Uther would simply assign a new bodyguard to himself – one who’d actually care about protecting Uther.

However, if Percy stays, he’ll have the chance to _fail_ at his assigned task, and let someone kill Uther. Or he could simply do it himself. The time’s still not right though. Agravaine the Petrol Master, and the Sarrum from Amata are likely to fight each other for Uther’s throne the second Uther drops dead. Best case scenario would be that they kill each other, but even then there are others in line to take his place, like Odin.

It’s just no use. As long as there’s no chance of someone _good_ succeeding Uther, it’s best to keep the devil they know, even if he’s a terrible tyrant, dead set on destroying every last part of this country.

In moments like these, Percy wishes Arthur had tried harder to act as if he were what Uther wanted him to be. If Arthur still were in the picture, Percy would’ve had no qualms about killing Uther.

And yes, he’d hoped that Arthur would overthrow his father and claim Camelot and the land for himself, then make it better. Instead, Arthur fled to the north to escape Uther’s grasp.

_Maybe he’s just gathering more allies, and once he’s got them, he’ll come back and free the rest of us._

Percy tries not to get too hung up on that hope. If it turns out to be false, he fears what the disappointment would do to him.

He watches as Uther takes yet another turn along the broken bridge’s edge, shouting orders to nearby Devils to do one thing or another. Uther doesn’t seem concerned with the few shouts for help from the pit below. It would seem that some survived the collapse even though they were on the bridge when it fell. They’ll have broken bodies, probably would never be able to walk or hold a gun ever again.

Which means that they’re useless to Uther now and the only reason for which he endures the pitiful cries for help is that shooting them would be a waste of bullets.

Percy clenches his jaw, and tries to ignore the cries.

Soon enough, they all stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: Merlin throws up after drinking too much water too quickly. Manchester is beind denounced as a city of pedophiles and criminals.


	4. Avalon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warnings: referenced/implied sexual abuse of a child, stabbing, racism, burning people on purpose. See notes at the end of this chapter for more details. (beware: spoilers)

Collapsing the bridge had happened on pure instinct.

One moment Merlin was worrying how they’d get away and stop anyone from following them, and in the next, the ground was shaking and the bridge collapsing. He only felt the surge of power coursing through him after it was already done and he felt himself coming down from the high.

It’s not quite what he’d had in mind, but he can’t deny that it served its purpose.

Merlin swallows thickly. There are so many things that could’ve gone wrong. The truck might not have been fast enough, and they could all be dead now. Or they could’ve lost Arthur.

He darts a quick glance to his left, but Arthur’s still sitting in the passenger seat, feet up on the cushion so he won’t accidentally step on or kick Elena’s body. His right arm’s covered in blood and dirt, and his face is just as grimey. Merlin supposes he must look just as bad, if not worse, after manhandling Elena’s body and cleaning the seat on which Arthur’s now sitting.

The girls haven’t come out of hiding yet, and Merlin wonders about that, but not enough to ask Arthur. Maybe they’re waiting for a signal that it’s safe, or they’re simply making sure that the truck’s far enough away from the border before showing their faces again.

Either way, Merlin wishes they were here now. Alone in the cabin with Arthur – and a dead girl – is not exactly Merlin’s dream situation. Not that Merlin could say what his dream situation would be. Maybe a quiet place all to himself where no one would bother him, and where he wouldn’t have to worry about being found out as a sorcerer, and then killed for something he can’t change.

“We should stop at the foot of that mountain,” Arthur says into the uncomfortable silence between them, and Merlin flinches from surprise, but keeps the truck steadily on track. Arthur just snorts derisively.

“For someone who just drove a truck off a collapsing bridge, you’re rather jumpy, Mervin,” he says, and Merlin has to roll his eyes.

“You’re welcome for saving the girls’ lives,” Merlin shoots back. “And my name is _Merlin_.”

Arthur doesn’t respond right away, and when Merlin looks at him again out of the corner of his eye, he can see Arthur staring down into the footwell.

Merlin swallows. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought up the girls.

“Thanks for that,” Arthur says earnestly, and Merlin turns his head a fraction to look at Arthur when he nods in acknowledgement. He catches Arthur’s frown before he turns back to keep an eye on the road.

“Wait a second. Your name is _Merlin_? That’s even more ridiculous than Mervin,” Arthur comments a second later.

Merlin just rolls his eyes.

“Shut up. At least I’m not a dollopheaded prat,” he shoots back, not even considering being less cheeky. It would seem that his survival instincts collapsed right along with that bridge.

To his surprise, Arthur just laughs.

Okay, so it’s only a dry chuckle, but there’s real mirth in it. Merlin just has to look at Arthur again to make sure he’s not imagining.

No, definitely not imagining it, unless he’s full on hallucinating now. Arthur’s most definitely smiling. There are even thin, barely there lines around his eyes from it. Merlin’s seized with the sudden urge to make Arthur smile more often just to deepen those laugh lines.

Unfortunately, they disappear the moment Arthur’s face turns serious again, but Merlin saw them. It makes him feel warm inside to know that Arthur can still laugh, even if it sounds unpractised.

“What even is a dollophead?” Arthur asks, but he doesn’t seem to expect an answer because he turns towards the back and bangs his right arm hard against the top of the hatch. A loud clanking sound echoes through the cabin, but this time Merlin doesn’t flinch.

“Foot of the mountain,” Merlin repeats after a few silent moments. “Got it.”

Arthur nods, that much Merlin can tell from the movement he catches in his peripheral vision. He’s about to say something else – although he doesn’t quite yet know what. Maybe ask if Arthur had almost not made it back onto the truck. Then again, Merlin doesn’t really want to know. If Arthur had been close to being lost to them, Merlin wouldn’t be able to stop imagining that outcome in great detail, and while not knowing was bad enough, it was better than knowing for sure.

Either way, he’s spared from making the decision to ask more questions by the return of the girls. Seems like they were waiting for a sign that it’s safe, because less than a minute after Arthur banged on the hatch, Sophia appears in the back of the cabin, closely followed by Freya, who’s looking more alert again from what Merlin can see in the rearview mirror.

Vivian is next, and finally Gwen. She immediately climbs back into the front seat to check on Elena’s body, and then slumps down into the seat once she’s sure that no further harm came to her.

Merlin can hear her choking back sobs again, and when he turns his head to check on her, he sees Arthur pulling her into his arms to comfort her.

The picture moves Merlin. Gwen, by no means fragile, looks small when curled up against Arthur’s bare chest. He’s got his left arm, the one that’s flesh and blood, wrapped around her shoulder, while the right one is dangling over the back of the seat where it won’t touch Gwen even though she’s still covered in Elena’s blood as much as Merlin is.

Merlin looks away from them before he can drive them off the road, but just as he turns his head, he looks up from Gwen’s shaking frame to catch Arthur’s eyes.

_Emrys._

As if receiving a mild electric shock, Merlin whips his head back all the way to the front and keeps his eyes fixed on the road for the rest of the drive. As nice as the tingling in his stomach feels, he really doesn’t need the complication. Especially not when he has no idea what it means.

Freya’s calmed down, at least. It took Sophia a long time to soothe her enough to get her back to reality. While she understands that Freya sometimes needs to escape for a bit, they can’t afford for her to be less than alert at the moment. When they’ve reached Avalon they can rest, they all agree on that.

Unfortunately, the need to refuel the truck and wash off forces them to stop not too long after they’ve crossed the border. Sophia ushers Freya out of the truck and takes her on a short walk in a wide circle around the truck to stretch their legs and just have a few quiet, private moments to themselves.

The others will take care of the rest, Sophia’s sure. She just needs to get away from that truck with its tiny metal compartment, and Elena’s dead body, and two men where originally she only had to endure one. One who gave her orders and was easily frustrated when she didn’t obey. Usually it’s fun to taunt power hungry machos, and it’s not that she isn’t enjoying how Arthur clenches his jaw angrily whenever she defies him. It’s just that she knows, in a way, that Arthur’s not like the others – and not just because he’s obviously not sexually interested in women and has had his red arm replaced by a metal prosthetic.

Arthur takes no pleasure in giving orders, or in making people do things they don’t enjoy and wouldn’t normally do. He only does it because someone has to take responsibility, and he happens to be the one to assume it. Sophia’s sure that, had they elected Vivian as the one in charge, or Gwen, Arthur would’ve deferred to either of them without question. As it is, he has done exactly that when both Viv and Gwen decided to bring that other man along.

Funnily enough – not that Sophia finds many things genuinely funny – this was one of the few occasions where Sophia was entirely on Arthur’s side. Bringing a stranger – a strange man – into their group without knowing where his allegiance lies was dangerous and reckless.

Vivian’s brain is clearly muddled with maternal hormones, and Gwen’s just naively sweet, Sophia’s always thought that. And no matter how often Elena says that Sophia’s just jealous that Gwen’s still able to believe in humanity despite what she’s seen and experienced, Sophia most definitely isn’t.

Elena.

It’s still hard to believe that she’s gone. It’s even harder to accept that none of them realised what was happening until it was too late.

Sophia doubts they could’ve done anything to save her. She’s seen her share of stab wounds to the neck and throat, and knows how quickly you bleed out from them. But they could’ve been there for her as she died. Instead Elena left this world alone while surrounded by people. Sophia can only imagine a few things that would be worse.

“We should go back,” Freya says softly, and Sophia looks at her with soft eyes. She gently strokes Freya’s cheek, and tucks a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.

“You’re right,” Sophia replies. She leans in to kiss Freya’s dusty forehead, then takes her hand and twines their fingers.

Together they return to the truck where Arthur and the other man are washing off the blood and grime that’s caked onto their skin, while Gwen’s busy refuelling the truck properly.

When, some time later, Sophia climbs back into the back seat of the truck, she realises that Elena’s body is gone from its hiding place, and she quickly turns to look at Vivian, who’s got her feet up on the free space beside her on the other half of the backseat.

Viv catches Sophia’s look, and sighs.

“We couldn’t keep her in here,” she explains at length. “Arthur and the others put her in the compartment. They’re keeping the hatch open for better ventilation and they’ve wrapped her in any spare fabric we had. As soon as we get to Avalon, we’ll give her a proper burial.”

Freya’s breath hitches, and Sophia automatically begins stroking her hair to soothe her. It works most of the time, and so it does now.

It feels wrong that Elena’s trapped in that metal prison again, especially now when she has no choice about it and can’t do any of the things she would’ve normally done to calm herself down. But Sophia accepts that it’s better to keep her somewhere safe and hidden until they’ve reached their destination.

Not having a dead body just a metre away from her is bound to be an improvement on the atmosphere in the cabin, right?

She leans back in the seat, and tightens her grip around Freya’s shoulder. Avalon’s just a couple more hours away, and then they’re free to do as they please once and for all.

Sophia can hardly wait.

_It’s immediately obvious which one of them is Emrys. His magic glows golden all around him – no, it pours out from inside him. Emrys_ **_is_ ** _magic. It’s a wonder that no one else in the truck notices it. Maybe the only reason she can see it is because she has magic herself._

_That would explain why the blonde in the back who’s got a faint electric blue aura made it into Uther’s court and out alive. No one knows what she is. Maybe not even she does. It’s possible the new life inside her brought it to the surface._

_It’s good that she’s coming to them. They can teach her how to use her gifts. There’s so much anger inside her, too. She’ll need guidance and counselling to make sure she doesn’t abuse her powers. There’s been enough bloodshed in the last two decades. The land needs no more blood._

_Her eyes are drawn back to Emry’s presence. He’s tense, she can see, even in sleep. His eyes are closed but the pupils moving rapidly._

_He’s dreaming._ **_Of what?_ ** _she wonders. Maybe he sees her now the same way she does him. Or maybe he’s remembering the horrors he endured. She can read his history in his magic, the decades of emptiness that only brought pain and misery. He truly must be strong, so much stronger than his wiry thin body suggests, to have survived._

_Emrys begins to fidget in his seat, nightmare making him want to run, to fight. He’s in the front seat, next to the driver, all by himself. The girls in the back are all lost in thought, all of them grieving and anxious. It shows in their auras._

**_They must have lost someone recently_** _, she realises. A soul dear to them._

_She’ll hear the full story when they arrive, she hopes. Maybe her brothers and sisters will be able to help them._

_Emrys’ movements are becoming more violent, but he doesn’t wake yet. There’s a large space between his seat and the driver, but the man behind the wheel reaches over and grabs Emrys’ shoulder nevertheless._

_He flinches as if shocked by electricity, but doesn’t pull away._

_She can see what caused the shock. Emrys’ magic latched onto the man’s skin the moment they touched. It’s now winding its way up his arm to envelope the driver entirely._

_She shifts her focus on him. Before now, he held no importance to her. Emrys, and possibly the girl in the back, are who she’s waiting for – who_ **_they_ ** _are waiting for. Only Emrys holds the key to save them and the world. He’ll find the warrior and together they will reunite the country and return magic to the land._

_Emrys’ magic wraps around the driver and now he, too, shines bright and golden, like Emrys himself. Together, their brightness eclipses everything she’s ever_ **_seen_ ** _before._

Morgana gasps and wakes with a jolt, her heart beating rapidly.

Emrys has found his warrior already. The magic’s never wrong, she’s sure of that.

She scrambles to her feet and runs out of the tent.

“Morgause!” she calls, and many of her brothers and sisters turn their head, watching her curiously.

It’s not the first time Morgana’s stormed out of her tent after a nap, or in the middle of the night. They all got used to it by now, but the curiosity’s never faded.

“Morgause! Mordred!” she calls again, and this time someone answers.

She runs to where she heard Mordred return her call, and finds both him and Morgause just behind the tree line of the dead forest. They’re sitting side by side, backs against the thick trunk of an old conifer.

Both of them get to their feet when Morgana approaches, looking at her with worry in their eyes. Morgana has her dreams under control most of the time, thanks to her sister’s bracelet. It’s only recently that she’s stopped wearing it because she could feel that her mind needed to be open.

Before that, she’s had nightmares of possible futures, only rarely seeing the one they’re all hoping for. It’s understandable that the two people closest to her would be anxious about her wellbeing – especially when she’s just run across half the Druid camp to find them after a dream.

She takes Morgause’s right hand, and Mordred’s left, and squeezes both.

“They’re almost here,” she says, and watches as both Morgause and Mordred’s expression change from worry to pure joy.

Merlin wakes with a start to find Arthur’s hand on his shoulder as the source of the warm sensation that’s spread all throughout him while he slept. It was that warmth that changed the dreams he was having. From fire and screaming pain to hope and bright light. And then, for a brief moment, he could see a pale, dark haired woman lying on the ground, sleeping, and without knowing why or how, Merlin knew that she was one of the Druids they’re looking for, and that she’d know what his powers are for.

Arthur’s hand disappears from Merlin’s shoulder, and with it goes the warmth, and the pleasant tingling all across his skin. It takes everything Merlin has not to ask Arthur to touch him again, but he realises that it would be weird and probably more than a little creepy. Arthur already doesn’t like him all that much, he really doesn’t need any more reasons. He might decide to kick Merlin out if he thought he was becoming too much of a bother.

To be honest, Merlin’s rather surprised he hasn’t been left behind already. But there’d been no protest from Arthur when Merlin had climbed back into the truck, and even Sophia, who’d never stopped glaring at him, hadn’t said anything about it.

Merlin’s glad for it. He doesn’t know why, but he’s got the feeling that he needs to stay with them. He just hopes they’ll find what they’re looking for. Maybe, if they do, Merlin will as well.

He darts a glance in Arthur’s direction, and wonders if he’s just imagining the blush on Arthur’s face.

_Probably_ , Merlin tells himself. _It’s also pretty warm in here. He’s probably just feeling hot._

Merlin leans back into the seat and for the longest time just watches the landscape around them. There are a lot of mountains, deep glens, and beds that used to be lakes. It’s different from the south country in so many ways, but the most obvious was that the forest, albeit dead, still stood. In the south, whatever wood there’d been, had been chopped down since the Purge, and all forests, as far as Merlin’s travelled, have disappeared, root and all.

It’s like a window into the past, and Merlin can almost see the green leaves he vaguely remembers from his childhood. Back when the earth was alive, forests weren’t just acres of dead trunks. They had leaves and flowers, bushes, and animals…

Merlin leans out the open window and breathes in the air, tricking himself into believing that it isn’t the same, dense heat from the south, and instead smells like a living forest.

He remembers the grove just behind his parents’ house. He wasn’t allowed to go play inside by himself, because he might get lost, but he’d longed to explore the mysterious world among the trees, so his mother and father had sometimes taken him on walks and explained about the circle of life in a forest, and how all living beings had a symbiotic relationship. He remembers his father joking that it was the same thing in their family. Merlin’s mother nurtured him and his father, his father protected them against evil, and Merlin brought joy into their lives, making it so much easier to do the rest.

Back then, Merlin hadn’t understood much of what his father was saying, but he remembers it now as they pass through what must’ve once been an enormous forest. It’s one of his earliest memories, and yet one of the last ones he has of a world that was alive. The thought makes him sad, and for the first time in almost twenty years, Merlin’s able to cry.

He doesn’t let himself, instead takes deep breaths and blinks his eyes furiously, all the while leaning out the window. If anyone notices anything weird about his eyes he can blame it on the draft from driving so fast.

When he feels calm enough, he flops back down into his seat. He only shed a few tears, but he feels better for knowing that he can – should he ever truly want to.

As they speed away from the dead trees, further north, none of them realise that where Merlin’s tears fell on the ground, a long forgotten seed deep in the earth germinates.

Elyan’s not happy about having to stop to refuel, Lance could tell even if Elyan hadn’t said so at least a dozen times already, and urged them to hurry up so they could press on.

But Gwaine put his foot down, and since he’s got the wheel – literally – Elyan has to content himself with glaring.

Eventually he stops, when Gwaine threatens to leave him behind. Lance knows Gwaine would never actually do it, but Elyan doesn’t, and at least the complaints stop.

Of course Lance empathises with Elyan. He’d be frantic with worry, too, if it were his sister out there somewhere. But contrary to what Gwaine or even Elyan might think, Lance is convinced that Gwen and the other girls are in good hands with Arthur. Lance has had the chance to speak with him a couple of times since Arthur was demoted to errand boy. He knows he’s idealistic to the point of naivety when it comes to people. He just wants to see the best in everyone, even in these desperate times.

In Arthur’s case, though, Lance is sure that he’s not wrong about him. Arthur’s got a good heart, and he’d never hurt an innocent person. He fights the best way he can for those who need his protection, and Lance relates to that.

Gwaine catches his eye, and nods towards the treeline where Leon’s already stepping into the dead forest. Lance smiles, nods back, and lets Gwaine go on ahead.

“Elyan,” Lance calls as he steps closer.

Elyan turns to look at him. He looks about ready to storm off in anger, or figure out how to drive the car without a wheel, and Lance claps a hand on his shoulder in solidarity.

“We’ll be on our way soon, and we’ll make up for lost time by driving twice as fast,” he promises. Gwaine’s most likely planning on doing just that anyway.

“Gwaine, Leon and I just need to talk about something first.”

Elyan’s jaw clenches. “Make it quick,” he says.

Lance nods. “I promise.”

With another squeeze to Elyan’s shoulder, Lance jogs to where Gwaine and Leon are hidden behind thick tree trunks. Lance takes a moment to touch the rough bark of a thick oak. It’s been so long since he’s felt… However he feels right now. He can’t even explain what he’s experiencing. Sadness for the lost life all around them, but glad to at least see a forest again, even if it’s dead and grey. He’s strangely hopeful for a better future, although no signs point towards it. As far as he knows, there’s no hope left. Magic’s gone, and so is this earth’s lifesource.

A soft moan breaks him out of his reverie, and he takes a few more steps until Leon and Gwaine come into view. Leon’s got Gwaine pinned against another thick oak, and is kissing him senseless.

“You couldn’t wait for me?” he asks once he’s close enough to run his hand down Leon’s back. He steps closer and wraps his arms around Leon’s waist, holding him close.

“Took too long,” Gwaine replies once he and Leon break away from each other.

Artwork by [whimsycatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher), rebloggable on [tumblr](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/165458922678).

“Our young friend is anxious to get going,” he explains. “He doesn’t understand why we haven’t moved on already.”

“Yeah, well,” Gwaine shrugs. “He’ll deal. ’s not like we know where to go from here anyway.”

“Hm,” Leon leans forward to mouth at Gwaine’s neck, and hums. “Where would you go?”

“As far the fuck away from Uther as I can,” Gwaine says, breath hitching just a bit. Lance loves when he makes that sound. He moves in closer and reaches for Gwaine’s side, squeezing gently.

“I bet that’s where they’re going, too,” Leon says a moment later, trailing his mouth along Gwaine’s jaw. Lance can hear the smile in his voice.

“Narrows it down to three directions, then,” Lance comments. He’s wriggling his left hand under Leon’s shirt, and his right under Gwaine’s. Given that Leon’s half a head taller than him, Lance has to content himself with leaning his forehead against his shoulder. Ideally, he would’ve liked to put his mouth there, but all their clothes are grimey and there are much better things Lance could put into his mouth than unwashed shirts.

“Oh!” Gwaine exclaims suddenly, and it startles both Lance and Leon enough to make them freeze in the middle of what they’re doing.

“Already?” Leon asks a couple of heartbeats later, and Lance can basically hear how high his eyebrows are raised.

“What? No!” Gwaine replies, sounding indignant. Lance opts to step away from Leon’s back and lean against the trunk of the oak next to Gwaine. He’d much rather see both of them properly anyway, and the way Gwaine’s sounding, they’re close to an angry outburst if Leon decides to tease him more. It’s been a tense day already, and Lance isn’t sure how much more Gwaine can take. He’s certainly not in the right mood to be made fun of right now – not even by Leon.

“Just tell us what happened,” Lance coaxes gently, not touching Gwaine except for where their shoulders are brushing.

Leon inhales as if to say anything, but Lance shoots him a look and shakes his head. Lance can only imagine too well what Leon might’ve said, and then Gwaine would’ve stormed off in a huff, and they’d be stuck a little longer in this place.

It’s not that Gwaine’s like this often, but on days when he’s been pushed far, he reaches a breaking point and the downward spiral into self-loathing is quick and hard, and Lance would much rather avoid it – especially considering that they just regained their freedom. He’d thought they were having a bit of a celebratory shag in the woods, and instead here they are, averting a meltdown.

“I just remembered that one of the camps we raided a while ago… there was this old woman and she was talking about trying to go north so she could reunite with her master. ‘parently she’s a Druid and so’s her master, and he lives on one of the isles in the Northwest where the last Druids are hiding.”

Now both Lance and Leon are frowning. “Why would she tell you all of that?” Leon asks. “In her eyes, you’re the enemy. Why tell you when you could use that knowledge to kill more druids?”

Gwaine shrugs. “Dunno. Said something about Courage, and that I was destined for more. Bunch of mumbo-jumbo bollocks, if you ask me.”

Lance and Leon share a look. A Druid woman who prophesies something is usually not to be ignored. If Gwaine’s meant to play a part in whatever Arthur’s begun, then they need to join Arthur, and do it soon.

“We should look for the Druids. I bet that’s where Arthur went,” Lance says finally. “It would make sense for him to seek Uther’s enemies to ally himself with them.”

“The Druids aren’t soldiers,” Leon argues. “And even so, there can’t be many of them left. Quite a small army.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lance says. “We should go to them. At the very least we might figure out how to find Elyan’s sister if she’s not there.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Leon acquiesces. “But there are a lot of islands off the coast. How do we know which one?”

Gwaine bites his lip. “She told me that too,” he admits hesitantly. “She called it ‘An t-Eilean Sgitheanach’.”

“The Isle of Skye,” Leon says, and Gwaine nods.

“That’s where they are, yeah,” Gwaine confirms. “Makes sense if you think about it. Fairy pools and all that.”

Lance watches as Leon and Gwaine mull it over. He’s never been to Skye. His parents were too poor to afford holidays, and Lance had spent the summer holidays at the nearby playground (if you can call a single set of swings that), or at home, doing his daily chores. What little he knows about the isle, is what he learned in elementary school, and he has to admit that not much stuck.

“Elyan will be happy to know we’ve got a destination,” he says into the contemplative quiet.

“Whatever,” Gwaine grouses. “Why’d you stop kissing me?”

Leon chuckles, and lets Lance rectify the situation.

It went dark a while ago. After they left the border behind, there’s been no more trouble on the way up north. The further they get, the less Arthur has to concentrate to stay on the right track, despite encountering more and more mountains, dried up lakes and endless, winding roads. The only thing he does have to be careful about is the many cracks in the road, or large rocks blocking the way. He’s going slower than he’d like, and sometimes he has to stop and move obstacles out of the way.

Arthur’s not entirely sure how he knows where to go, what road to follow and for how long. It’s like something inside him is guiding the way.

_Must be the prophecy_ , he thinks, trusting that it really is _his_ destiny to find Avalon, meet Emrys, and return magic to Albion with his help.

So he drives, rarely taking his eyes off the road. After what must’ve been hours, Merlin asks if he should take over for a while, but Arthur shakes his head.

“Get some sleep,” he tells him. The girls are curled up uncomfortably in the backseat, and all asleep already. “I’ve got it.”

Merlin shifts in the seat, and Arthur assumes he’s curling up on his side to do as told. He’s not wrong, but when Merlin speaks again, his voice is still close. Contrary to Arthur’s expectations, Merlin’s feet are towards the passenger door, and his head towards Arthur.

Something inside his stomach flips, but it’s not a bad feeling – just weird.

“Why are you helping them?” Merlin asks quietly.

Instead of snapping angrily that it’s what any decent person should be doing, which is what Arthur thought he’d answer, he finds himself telling Merlin part of the truth.

“Someone had to,” he says at length. “And I feel responsible for them. For everyone trapped in this world.”

“Why?” Merlin returns, and Arthur exhales slowly. It’s a can of worms he’d rather not open, but he supposes he’s already started it, there’s no point in backing out now.

“Because it’s my fault all of this has happened,” Arthur replies quietly. “If it hadn’t been for me, my mother wouldn’t have died, and Uther wouldn’t have gone berserk. He’s my father. I don’t know if you knew that. Nowadays, not many new to Camelot do.”

Going by Merlin’s soft gasp, he hadn’t known. “But––“ Merlin begins, only Arthur doesn’t let him finish.

“He disowned me when I disrespected him. I wouldn’t rape someone, so he discarded me. So, you see, there’s no love lost between him and me.” Arthur sounds much more bitter than he expected. He got over being Uther’s biggest disappointment a long time ago. Pleasing his father hadn’t been amongst Arthur’s ambitions almost as long. It still hurts though, to know that your own father discards you when you turn out to be less of an obedient pet than he’d expected.

“It’s not your fault, Arthur,” Merlin says, his voice cutting through Arthur’s thoughts. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but I’m sure it’s not your fault that your mother died, or that your father spun out of control.”

Merlin’s not the first person to say this to him, but he’s the first Arthur wants to believe. It shouldn’t matter what this stranger thinks of him. They don’t know each other, despite what they’ve been through together already, and Arthur doesn’t usually give a crap about what anyone thinks of him.

“Yeah, well, the point stands that my mother died during my birth, and that my father went off his hinges. What you see out there is the result of that one event.”

Anger rises up in his throat like bile, and Arthur’s worried he’s going to vomit self-hatred if he doesn’t press a fist to his mouth to keep it all in. Doing that would give him away though. It would show Merlin that Arthur’s weak, and Arthur cannot let that happen.

When a warm hand lands on his shoulder, Arthur actually chokes in surprise.

“Listen to me, Arthur. You have to stop thinking that way,” Merlin’s saying. He’s closer now, speaking quietly almost directly into Arthur’s ear.

It must be uncomfortable for him to lean across the gap between the seats, and over the gearstick and handbrake, but Merlin’s mouth is next to the shell of Arthur’s ear, and his hand is on his bare shoulder, pleasantly warm, and causing his skin and insides to tingle pleasantly like they did before.

“Nothing good will come of you blaming yourself. You’re not Uther, and you’re not to blame for what he’s done to the world. You were a baby. Nothing could’ve been done to prevent your mother’s death. If not during childbirth, she would’ve died another way.”

Merlin sounds so sure and so sad at the same time, as if he regrets having to tell Arthur this.

“How’d you know that?” Arthur asks, finding his voice raspy. He clears his throat and tries again. “How can you know she would’ve died anyway?”

Merlin exhales slowly, and the puff of warm air on Arthur’s neck makes him shiver, and the tingling inside his stomach intensifies.

“I don’t know how, I just do. I don’t think anyone could’ve prevented what happened,” Merlin says, and he sounds even sadder now.

Arthur clears his throat again, and nods. “Maybe you’re right.”

He flexes his left hand on the wheel, fighting the impulse to reach over and touch Merlin in return. He’s got a feeling that the sensation in his stomach and the warmth on his skin would intensify if he did, and that might distract him from driving to the point where he crashes them into a mountainside.

“I’m okay now,” he says at length when Merlin makes no move to get back into his seat. “You can sit down again.”

“Hm?” Merlin hums, the sound sending another pleasant shiver down Arthur’s spine.

“Sit down, Merlin,” Arthur repeats with more strength in his voice. “You’re breathing into my ear and it’s not exactly the best feeling in the world,” he lies.

“Oh,” Merlin says, and quickly pulls back. He doesn’t lie back down, though, and for the rest of the night, Arthur and Merlin both stare out the front window at the dark road winding through the highlands. The tingling in Arthur’s stomach never quite stops.

The night’s almost over when she hears the rumbling engine of a vehicle drawing near. It’s the sound of the truck that hits her first, but by the time she can see it in the distance, the magical energy registers with her, and she gasps softly.

Morgana had said they’d be coming soon, and that they’re powerful, but Morgause hadn’t expected this.

It’s like a small wave gently cresting over her head and showering her in droplets of warmth.

The hairs on her skin raise and every fibre of her being goes tense in anticipation.

Guarding the passage to the Isle of Skye has been tradition for more than thousand years. It began with a High Priestess who requested sailors to pay tribute to Mother Earth before passing, and once car infrastructure blossomed, and the bridge was built, there’s always been a Priestess present to guard Eilean Bàn.

Morgause has been with the order since she was a little girl. She remembers Mother Earth as a green, fertile place, and she remembers accompanying the High Priestess when she went to guard Eilean Bàn. Now, Morgause is Priestess of the Old Religion, and Morgana her successor, but guard duty is shared between all women in their camp.

With her arms outstretched, the sleeves of her dark red robe hanging almost down to the floor, Morgause stands in the middle of the road.

Artwork by [whimsycatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher), rebloggable on [tumblr](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/165458922678).

She’s aware that she looks vulnerable, but anyone who’s ever tried to run her over rather than paying their respects has found themselves running into a solid wall instead.

She hopes that the driver of this truck is smarter than that.

Minutes later, the truck draws near, slows, and finally stops a hundred paces away from her. Morgause smiles.

The passenger door opens with a creaking sound, and someone jumps out. In the darkness of pre-dawn, Morgause can’t see much, but she can make out a skinny silhouette that’s moving closer.

The driver’s side door opens as well, the screeching sound of unoiled hinges loud in the quiet of the night. The skinny person startles and flinches, then turns back to the other person jumping out of the truck.

“Arthur,” the first person hisses. Their voice sounds low and male, but loud in the quiet. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t get stabbed,” the other person replies in another male sounding voice.

“I won’t get stabbed,” the first man says, sounding indignant.

The closer they get, the warmer she gets. _One of them must be Emrys_ , she muses, and she finally pushes back her hood to reveal her face.

“Oh,” the first man says, and stops a few paces away from her. The second man, Arthur, walks right up to the first man’s back and looms behind him.

Morgause can just about see their faces now. The first man has sharp cheekbones and full lips, Arthur has a strong jaw and prominent nose. She doesn’t possess the ability to tell which one of them exudes all that warm, magical energy. Morgause has magical gifts, yes, but Morgana is the only one who has the sight, and only she and Mordred can see magical auras.

So far, all Morgause has ever felt was her own magic inside her. Sometimes, when Morgana’s having a particular vivid dream, Morgause thinks she can sense tendrils of it on her skin, but she’s never sure it isn’t the chill of the night.

This is the first time she’s felt anything this strong from anyone. Emrys must be so much more powerful than any of them expected.

She bows her head. “Welcome,” she says. “Who are you and what do you seek on our island?”

“Er,” the first man says, seemingly lost for words. He turns to Arthur. “Why _did_ you want to come here?”

She’s not sure, but she thinks she can see Arthur rolling his eyes. Morgause bites back a smile.

“We’ve come to seek asylum with the Druids,” Arthur says. “There’s six of us, four women, one of them pregnant, and the two of us. We’re looking for someone. We believe we’ll find him here.”

He speaks with confidence, as if he’s used to being a leader, and yet Morgause can hear a gentleness in his voice – even though he tries to hide it. He cares about the people entrusted to him, and if he finds that there’s no safety to be found here, he will go further to seek it elsewhere. _He must be Emrys_ , Morgause thinks.

“The place you seek is not far. But before I can let you go on, you must pay the toll,” she says.

Both men tense. “What do you want?” Arthur – Emrys – asks. He’s stepped around his companion, standing in front of him as if to shield him from Morgause’s attack.

“Nothing you can’t give,” she promises. “We’re not like those who seek to exploit humanity and our Mother Earth. Your toll will be to her, not me or my people.”

She draws a small silver dagger from her robes and holds it out to Emrys, handle first. “Just a few drops of blood, given willingly to the Earth.”

Emrys takes the dagger, and it’s only now that Morgause realises that his right arm and hand are not made of flesh. She gasps, understanding her mistake.

“You’re the warrior we’ve been waiting for,” she says to Arthur.

Arthur doesn’t look surprised or confused – contrary to his companion, who, Morgause realises now, must be Emrys instead. Arthur squares his shoulders, and pricks his left forefinger with the point of the dagger.

“Where should I pay my tribute?” he asks, never taking his eyes off of hers.

Morgause snaps back into herself, and draws a box from her robes. She opens the lid and holds it out to Arthur. Without another word, he lets his blood drip into the small mound of earth inside the box.

Once he’s given enough – a few drops suffice, Mother Earth isn’t greedy – Morgause takes his hand, kisses the tip of his finger, and touches the heel of his hand to her forehead.

“Blessed be you,” she says, using the traditional response, then lets go of his hand.

He draws it back and inspects his finger. She can see his eyes widen in surprise when he realises that the wound has already healed.

Morgause smiles at him, then turns to Emrys, keeping eye contact with him. His eyes are wide, and now that Morgause knows who he is, she thinks she can tell that the warmth’s coming from him, and the only reason it’s still as strong as before when Arthur stood behind him, is because Arthur’s submerged in it.

Morgause smiles warmly, and bows her head before Emrys in a silent greeting.

“All of you may pass. I’m certain that you will find everything you’re looking for,” she says formally. “It’s an honour to receive both of you.”

This makes Arthur frown, Morgause can just about make out his furrowed brow in the grey twilight of the slowly passing night. He glances at Emrys, and Emrys looks back, shrugging at him. “Don’t look at me, I don’t know what she means by any of that,” he says.

Morgause doesn’t know what to make of it. Doesn’t Emrys know about his own destiny? Doesn’t he know who Arthur is and what they’ll do? Or is he deliberately acting ignorant? But why?

“Just get back into the truck, Merlin,” Arthur says, sounding exasperated. He looks back at Morgause. “Will we find your people easily?”

Morgause smiles. “Just follow whatever instinct’s brought you this far,” she says. “You’ll have to leave the truck behind before you can approach the camp, but I’m sure that you’ll know when to get out and walk.”

Arthur nods, then turns and follows Emrys – Merlin – back to the truck. Morgause steps aside when the engine rumbles back to life, and lets them pass. Once they’re out of sight, she opens the lid of the box and peers inside. She can’t be sure in the dim light, but she thinks the earth looks moist, as if after a warm spring rain.

The sound of another vehicle approaching snaps her attention back to the present, and she quickly closes the box and hides it away in her robe. Whoever’s following Emrys and his warrior will have to prove themselves worthy to be allowed to follow them – or end their journey here, one way or another.

They enter the camp just as the sun’s creeping up on the horizon.

Merlin can’t make out much in the dim light of pre-dawn. He thinks he can see the vague shapes of tents nested in between hills, but that’s all about he can see.

He’s so intent on getting a good look at the place that he almost steps on a boy kneeling in their way. Arthur stops, though, and since Merlin, along with Gwen and Sophia is helping him carry the pallet on which they’ve placed Elena’s body, Merlin has no choice but to stop as well – just in time before his boot connects with the head of the boy, too.

“I welcome you,” the boy says reverently. “Your people await you, Lord Emrys.”

Arthur draws in a sharp breath, and Merlin tenses immediately. If Arthur recognises that name, it means he knows that Merlin can do magic – and that means Merlin’s potentially in danger. For all that Arthur’s set out to find the Druids, he might not take well to realising that Merlin’s got magic, and has been under his nose all this time without telling him.

Before Merlin can lose his grip on the pallet, Arthur starts to lower it to the ground, forcing the other three to move along lest they want to let Elena’s slide off it.

“Arthur,” Merlin says slowly, raising his hands in defence. He’s got no chance against him if it comes to a fist fight. Not that Arthur would have to use his fists. He could just use that blade in his arm and be done with Merlin.

Not that Merlin thinks Arthur’s really going to kill him for having magic – after all, the whole point is that Arthur’s not like his father – but there’s a kind of disbelieving anger in Arthur’s eyes that scares Merlin.

“ _You’re_ Emrys,” Arthur says. His voice is accusing, as is his glare.

“Er,” Merlin says, rubbing his upper arm nervously. “I suppose? I’ve been called that before, anyway.” He prefers to omit the fact that it was a voice inside his head that called him that. No need to add fuel to the fire.

“And you didn’t think to bloody mention it?” Arthur snaps angrily. Merlin flinches but doesn’t move further away. He could probably use his magic to defend himself if Arthur attacked him. However, he doesn’t want to. He’s got no interest in harming Arthur, or anyone, really.

“I didn’t think it was relevant?” Merlin tries, because it wasn’t, really. The name means nothing to him, even if he knew, somehow, that it’s his name. Or one of his names, anyway. He had no reason to suspect that _Arthur_ would know it, or that it would mean anything to him.

“My Lord,” the boy says suddenly, startling Merlin who’d completely forgotten that there was someone kneeling on the ground. Now that he looks at him, the boy’s head is bowed deeply and his shoulders are visibly tense. “I apologise for betraying your secret. Please deal me whatever punishment you seem fit.”

That–– catches Merlin entirely off-guard.

Punishment? Good God, where did this boy get the idea Merlin would punish him for something as mundane as knowing his name?

Merlin exchanges a look with Arthur, who, to Merlin’s relief, looks equally shocked and appalled. A moment later, though, a look steals into Arthur’s eyes, and Merlin gets the distinct impression that Arthur’s waiting for him to – what? Actually punish the boy?

He kneels down in front of him and gets his first proper look at him. He’s skinny, and pale. His hair’s a right bird’s nest of dark curls, his face round despite the hollow cheeks, and in the dim light of the morning, Merlin can make out piercing blue eyes once he’s persuaded the kid to raise his head enough to look at Merlin.

It feels right to put a hand on the boy’s head, and Merlin has to smile at the startled look the kid gives him. Whatever it is that compels him to cup the boy’s cheek with his other hand, Merlin doesn’t fight it, and when, a moment later, the boy relaxes visibly, Merlin smiles warmly at him. He can feel the wetness of the boy’s tears on his cheeks and it makes something clench uncomfortably around Merlin’s heart. This boy, _this child_ – because surely he can’t be older than Freya, if even that old yet. He looks to be fourteen at most – was so scared of him and what he might do to him that he’s been crying and trying not to show it.

Whoever’s in charge of raising this kid will have to answer some questions.

“There’ll be no more punishments,” he says softly. “I don’t know what you’re used to, but I won’t hurt you in any way.”

Artwork by [whimsycatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher), rebloggable on [tumblr](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/165458922678).

When the boy launches himself forward into Merlin’s arms and cries freely into his shoulder, Merlin can’t do anything but wrap his arms around him and stroke his hair until he’s calmed down.

“I’m so glad you’re finally here. We’ve waited so long. Now the prophecy can be fulfilled, and magic will return,” the boy heaves out between sobs and it only raises more questions for Merlin but he can wait to ask them.

Merlin has no idea how long it takes, but the sun’s almost up by the time the boy pulls away again. No one else has said anything in all this time, and Merlin has avoided looking at anyone. As it is, he doesn’t more than glance at Arthur after the boy has let go of him.

“I apologise,” the boy says, and ducks his head sheepishly. “My name is Mordred. I’ll guide you the rest of the way,” he says, and Merlin can’t resist ruffling his hair. Mordred makes a small noise of surprise but doesn’t seem to mind the touch otherwise.

“That’d be great,” Merlin says. He looks back around to his friends. “We’ve got a pregnant woman with us, and, as you can see, a friend who deserves a proper burial. And maybe, once that’s all settled, someone can explain to me why you keep calling me Emrys when my name’s Merlin.”

“Yes,” Mordred says, jumping to his feet, and almost knocking Merlin over in his eagerness. As it is, Merlin falls backwards onto his arse, and then starts laughing. He looks to Arthur, hoping to share the joke of his clumsiness, but Arthur doesn’t smile. It wipes the smile off Merlin’s face, and he swallows thickly.

A moment later, Arthur holds out his right hand to help Merlin up.

Merlin grins with relief as he takes it and lets Arthur pull him to his feet. They stand rather close once Merlin’s back upright, and Merlin’s searching Arthur’s eyes for traces of enmity or maybe violence. He doesn’t find either, and it relaxes Merlin to know that Arthur has no interest in hurting him, despite the anger he’s apparently feeling.

_Are we okay?_ Merlin wants to ask, but doesn’t.

_I thought you trusted me,_  Arthur’s eyes seem to say, and that, Merlin supposes, is the crux of it.

Or maybe he’s just reading things into it.

“Right this way, my Lord,” Mordred says to get their attention, and Merlin cringes at the honorific.

“Please don’t call me that,” he says. “My name’s Merlin. If you must call me Emrys, call me just that, no titles. I’m a normal person.”

Arthur snorts at that last statement, probably ready to claim that his regular name isn’t normal either, but Merlin decides not to raise to the bait. It doesn’t help that Mordred looks as disbelieving as Arthur sounds, although probably for other reasons.

Mordred gestures towards the camp. “If you’ll follow me.”

Merlin nods, and with another look at Arthur, takes his position at the corner of the pallet again. On Arthur’s count, the four of them pick it up again and slowly make their way into the camp behind Mordred.

Inside the camp, they’re greeted by more Druids, and while that was to be expected from, you know, a Druid camp, what’s not is that they all bow to him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin can see Arthur’s clenched jaw. It’s not from carrying the pallet, he’s sure, so it must be renewed anger over the whole Emrys thing. Or maybe jealousy that Merlin’s getting the royal treatment instead of him?

Well, if that’s the case, fuck Arthur and his entitlement.

Only–– it’s not like the Arthur Merlin got to know these last twenty-four hours to be petty and jealous. Titles don’t mean anything to Arthur, only righteous deeds – as old-fashioned as that sounds.

_Must be about the magic, then_ , Merlin concludes. Well, fuck Arthur too, if that’s it. It’s not like Merlin asked to be something special. As far as he’s concerned, he isn’t anything special.

He really has got to find someone to explain this whole thing to him before Arthur actually gives into his more violent side and possibly punches Merlin in the face with his right hand.

“What do you mean, you thought it wasn’t relevant?” Arthur hisses angrily.

They arrived in the camp not long ago, and Merlin was greeted by more Druids with reverent bows and hushed voices. He was embarrassed, Arthur could see that, but right then he really didn’t feel sorry for him.

Here he was, escaping Camelot just to find the legendary Emrys, while all this time he’s been right under their noses? And if he’s that powerful sorcerer that the prophecy claims, why the fuck couldn’t he have saved them all the trouble and just smote Uther right then and there?

Elena could still be alive. Who knows how many more people would’ve been saved already if only this damn fool Merlin would’ve opened his bloody mouth and said something earlier?

Arthur’s absolutely livid.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done by not telling us?” he snaps at Merlin.

Merlin and Arthur have been given a tent to themselves, and the second the Druids left them alone, Arthur’s rounded on him. If the walls had been made of anything other than tarp, he would’ve knocked him against one. As it is, all he can do is loom threateningly. Considering that he’s about twice as broad as Merlin, it’s rather effective.

“It’s not like my magic’s all that strong,” Merlin says, crossing his arms in front of his chest defensively, but he looks away from Arthur’s face.

“Liar,” Arthur says, leaning in even closer until they’re almost touching. “You collapsed the bridge, didn’t you? I didn’t realise before but that’s the only logical explanation. And you made that man’s car explode before it could blow up the truck.”

Merlin shrugs helplessly. “I did, but I didn’t mean to do any of it. I just didn’t want any of us to die. My magic sort of acted on its own.”

“But you _have_ magic,” Arthur insists, resisting the urge to take Merlin by the shoulders and shake him. “You should’ve told me!”

“Why?” Merlin asks, and now he’s looking at Arthur. His eyes are narrowed and his eyebrows drawn together. Arthur can still see how blue his eyes are, and how long his eyelashes. “So you could use me as a weapon? Or maybe use me as a bargaining chip to trade at the border?” He takes a step away from Arthur, and his eyes are starting to glow golden. It’s still faint, but in the dim light of the tent, Arthur can clearly see it.

“No,” Arthur says, voice firm. “Well, not entirely. I would’ve asked you to use it to help us,” he admits. “It could’ve saved Elena.”

Merlin flinches, and the glow in his eyes dies away as quickly as it had appeared. In its wake, the blue of Merlin’s eyes looks brighter than before. Arthur finds he can’t look away.

“I couldn’t have saved her,” Merlin says quietly, finally unfolding his arms only to let them hang limply at his side. His shoulders hunch, and his voice sounds broken. Arthur can hear the sadness and anger in it. Merlin hasn’t known any of them long, but he’s as upset about Elena’s death as the rest of them, possibly even blaming himself for not helping her with his powers, just like Arthur blames himself for not protecting her better.

“My magic’s been gone for a long time,” Merlin says at length. “When I was small, I could use it easily, subconsciously. My mum said I used to float my favourite stuffed animal around the room all the time.”

There’s a sad smile playing around Merlin’s lips that tugs at something inside Arthur. He’s got no idea what Merlin’s story is, didn’t think to ask until now. Between running from Uther and worrying about the prophecy, nothing else mattered. Maybe if he’d shown more interest in Merlin’s story, trusted him a little more, Merlin would’ve trusted him in return, even if it’s been only a day since they first met. After all, Merlin has already proven that he’s on their side, and it’s not like there haven’t been chances for them to talk to each other.

Arthur swallows, picking up on one of the things Merlin admitted. “What do you mean, it’s been gone? Where did it go?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin says, shrugging helplessly. “After the Purge, I lost all my magical abilities. I couldn’t do anything anymore. It was like losing a part of me.”

He exhales shakily. “I learned to live without it. Sometimes, I didn’t even notice anymore that it was gone. Other times... “

Merlin clenches his fists and stares at the floor as if it has any answers or comfort. Eventually, he speaks again. “Other times it was bad,” is all he offers.

Arthur wants to say something, offer the comfort that the floor can’t give Merlin, but his mind is blank. He’s lost an arm, and he’s had it replaced with a different one – a better one, some people might say. But Merlin lost much more than a limb, and there’s been no replacement for it.

“Anyway,” Merlin huffs after another long pause. “I lived without it for so long, I didn’t think it would ever come back. Uther’s killed the magic and so mine was gone too. But then it started returning when I was tied to the roof of that maniac’s car. I got out of my chains and inside the car, and that’s when I realised he was going to blow himself up just to kill you.”

The anger’s back in Merlin’s eyes, and now Arthur can hear it in his voice as well. “He was going to kill me, too, just to get revenge on you. I couldn’t let it happen. My magic must’ve acted on instinct. I don’t know exactly what happened, but when I woke up, he was knocked out and I got away. Then I found you guys and I think my magic’s been getting stronger and stronger since then.”

Arthur sits down on the nearest cot, fatigue and strain finally catching up with him. If Merlin’s magic started to come back since Arthur fled, and has been becoming stronger ever since they joined up, that’s a good sign that they really are destined to fulfill that destiny together. He’s got no idea how any of this could be happening, and how exactly it’s going to help him, but if it’s possible for magic to return to one man, it must be possible to return it to the Earth, and other people, too.

“Do you know anything about the prophecy?” Arthur asks, not looking up at Merlin.

“No,” Merlin says after a long moment of silence. “Until Mordred mentioned it earlier, I never even knew there was one.”

Arthur sighs, and leans back, finally meeting Merlin’s eyes again.

“Emrys, he whose power is greater than any before him shall return magic to its rightful place. At his side will fight a man born from pain, raised in blood, then cast away. With hair as bright as gold, and an arm like a forged weapon the likes of which haven’t been seen in centuries, the Mother will have a warrior to fight for her life’s blood. Together they shall bring peace and prosperity to Gaia once more,” Arthur recites. He doesn’t bother to raise his arm or gesture to his hair, because Merlin’s clearly noticed both before.

“That’s… really specific,” Merlin says eventually, and Arthur’s so surprised by it, he starts to laugh before he can realise what he’s doing.

Of all the things he would’ve expected Merlin to say, that was not it.

“It is,” he wheezes once he’s calmed down enough to speak. “Guess Fate didn’t want to leave anything up to chance. Given how dense you are, I’m not surprised it wanted you to have a clear description of who it’s got in mind for the task.”

“Oi,” Merlin protests. “You don’t know me nearly well enough to make accusations like that.”

The hurt and indignation on his face and in his voice almost set Arthur off again, but he stops himself from laughing any more. It’s clearly not helping. He leans back on his hands, and looks up at Merlin, still smiling.

“I’m sure you’ve got firmly formed opinions about me already, too,” he says, taking care to let the amusement sound through in his voice. “For example, you seem to think I’d’ve thrown you to the Devils if I thought it would give me an advantage.”

“Wouldn’t you have?” Merlin challenges him.

Arthur’s taken aback by the vehemence, and it makes him stop and think about his answer. The smile’s slipped off his face, and eventually he has to concede that, yes, in the beginning, he would’ve. In fact, he had done exactly that when he sent Merlin out to guard the rear of the truck.

“Well,” he says at length. “I wouldn’t have done it after you defended the truck against the Devils.”

Merlin must find something in Arthur’s eyes that reassures him, because after a long moment of silence between them, he nods. “I believe you.”

They fall quiet again, and Merlin finally sits down on the other cot, exhaling noisily.

“What happens now?” he asks a moment later, and Arthur shrugs noncommittally. “Now we get some rest, and then we figure out how we make that prophecy come true.”

He lies down on his back, hands linked behind his head, and closes his eyes. Just as he’s thinking that it’s unlikely that he’s going to get much sleep, he feels a warmth envelope him that drags him into blessed darkness despite the gentle tingle running over his skin. Arthur sleeps, and for the first time in years, he doesn’t dream of blood and pain.

The whole thing is comically absurd, in Merlin’s opinion.

You’d think someone would’ve mentioned a magical destiny to him, given that he’s supposed to be one half of the main event of it. One half, and Arthur the other. The prophecy was weirdly specific about that, and Merlin wonders – not for the first time since Arthur’s told him about it a couple of hours ago – if Arthur hadn’t made it all up as part of an elaborate prank. After all, what kind of prophecy specifically mentions a person’s hair colour, prosthetic limb and painful backstory?

He turns over on the cot, exhales noisily, and finally gets up to go and find someone in the camp who’ll tell him more.

Not even two steps out of the tent, Merlin runs into Morgana, the striking young woman he saw for the first time in a dream, and then again after they arrived in the camp. She’d welcomed them all, giving Merlin the impression that she’s the leader of the Druids. As it turned out, she isn’t. She’s a priestess of the Old Religion, like the woman they met on the bridge. But Morgana possesses the gift of foresight and she’s been waiting for them to arrive for a while already.

“You have questions,” she says matter-of-factly, and Merlin can only nod. He does have questions. Many of them, in fact.

“Come,” Morgana says, and takes his arm. “I’ll tell you whatever I can.”

And so Merlin follows her through the camp to what he assumes is her tent. She holds the flap open for him and lets him step inside.

Her tent is much like the one they gave to him and Arthur. It’s tarp thrown over a wooden frame, tied together with string. However, it’s not even half the size of what Merlin and Arthur share, and there are no cots. There’s a resting place made up of a blanket and pillow on a mat made out of straw – or so Merlin guesses. It looks old and as if only hope’s keeping it together.

Merlin blushes. These people are treating him and Arthur like they’re special and deserve more luxury than the Druids who’ve lived here all their lives – or at least a significant part of it.

“Please,” Morgana says softly. “Sit. It may not offer much comfort, but we won’t be disturbed in here.”

Carefully, he settles down on the edge of the makeshift mattress, and waits for her to do the same. They’re sitting close together, thanks to the confines of the space, and Merlin can see now that her eyes are a pale green, but they’re bloodshot. She looks as if she’s been awake for days, and Merlin wonders if that’s a side-effect of her gift, or due to something else. Not that he’s going to ask her, of course.

“You have questions,” she says again, and Merlin nods before she’s finished speaking.

“Well,” she says, lips curving into a cheeky smile. “Ask.”

Merlin opens his mouth to pose his first question – and finds that he’s got no idea where to start.

He closes his mouth again, and looks at her helplessly.

Her smile becomes knowing, and she nods as if she understands his problem. Most likely she does. Maybe she’s foreseen this bit too. At this point, Merlin wouldn’t be surprised.

“Arthur’s told you about the prophecy, yes?” she asks after a moment’s silence. She turns further towards Merlin and tucks a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. A beautiful silver bracelet around her wrist catches Merlin’s attention, and he looks at it curiously, not even realising that he’s leaned in closer to get a better look.

Morgana slowly lowers her arm and holds it out to him. “It’s a family heirloom,” she explains. “Morgause, my sister, gave it to me. It has magical powers and helps me sleep at night. Now that you’re here, I can start wearing it again.”

Merlin raises his eyes to her face. “You took it off because of us?”

“Yes,” she says, smile never wavering. “I see what I _see_ in dreams, but the bracelet keeps them away. I often dream of terrible things. Of possible futures. A while ago it got so bad that the bracelet was the only way I could find any sleep at all.”

Merlin swallows. He knows nightmares only too well, but having nightmares is miles away from having dreams that you know could become reality.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he reaches for her hand, and holds it, while he cups the other around the bracelet. He can sense a faint energy inside it, but it’s weak. “There’s not much magic left in it,” he says, sounding worried even to his own ears.

“I’ll use it for as long as I can, and with any luck, I’ll be able to recharge it soon.” Her voice is confident, as if she truly believes that there’ll be enough magic in the world again to channel some of it back into this piece of jewellery.

Without conscious thought, Merlin’s magic reaches out and flows through the bracelet, rejuvenating what’s already there, and leaving a more vibrant energy behind than when Merlin first touched it.

Artwork by [whimsycatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher), rebloggable on [tumblr](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/165458922678).

Morgana gasps, as if she’s been shocked, and she pulls her hand away to hold the bracelet up to her eyes. The pale green irises reflect molten gold for just a moment, and then Morgana hums in contentment, closing her eyes as if she’s savouring something so exquisite that the only way to truly enjoy it is to shut out the world around her.

Watching her should make Merlin uncomfortable, as if he’s witnessing something intimate and private, but mostly he feels energy flowing through him in return, as if by giving some of it to Morgana, his own magic’s growing stronger and brighter as well.

In that moment, he understands why he was chosen for the task. If he can give magic to others without losing any of his, if his own magic’s actually growing stronger by being shared, then of course he _has_ to share it, and give back as much as he possibly can.

He’s not sure it will be enough. The world’s big, and what Uther’s done twenty years ago was bad enough that even magicals outside of Albion were affected by it to the point of losing all their magic, and draining the world of it almost entirely.

There’s no guarantee that his power will be enough to reverse all of that, but Merlin would much rather try than let all lives waste away any more than they already have.

“What do we have to do? How’s Arthur part of any of this? If I can share my magic, couldn’t I do it from anywhere?” he asks, finally sure of what questions he needs answered.

Morgana’s eyes shine, and Merlin’s not sure if it’s his imagination, but he thinks their colour has deepened and there are flecks of gold breaking through the bright green. The dark circles have vanished and her skin’s gone from sickly white to beautifully pale and smooth.

Whether it’s his magic or Morgana’s own that’s strengthening her body, a shiver runs down Merlin’s spine when she explains what she knows, and a plan begins to form in his mind.

A plan that’s just as dangerous and impossible like Arthur’s escape from Camelot, but at least this time Merlin’s in on it from the start.

No other place has ever felt this safe before. Until today, Sophia’s embrace had been the safest spot, which is good because it meant that safety could go where she went, as long as Sophia went with her.

This place though… it’s as if peace is a tangible thing here.

Freya’s been walking around the camp for a while now. Sophia was exhausted from the trip and she fell asleep the moment she lay down, but Freya couldn’t sleep yet. Something’s different about this place, and once she stepped outside the tent she realised what it is: She doesn’t feel scared at all here, and for the first time in years it’s as if there’s nothing that she should be worried about.

She climbs one of the small hills that are scattered around the camp and lays down on the hard rock. It’s the perfect temperature, just like the air in the camp. Everywhere else it’s always boiling hot at day, and freezing cold at night, but here it’s been the same, pleasant temperature ever since they arrived.

The sky above her is pale in the early morning light, but Freya can see the sun gearing up to burn for another terrible day in a horrible world.

Freya inhales and exhales slowly, breathing in the clean air. She spreads her arms and legs wide, and imagines that she can fly.

She used to do this before the Devils took her. Sometimes she found a good hiding spot, lay on the ground, and imagined she could just fly away from everyone who wants to hurt her.

In Camelot she’d never done it. There’d been pain in Camelot, yes, but much less than outside of it. Uther touched her rarely. He preferred Vivian and Sophia, and Elena.

The thought of her stings even though Freya hadn’t know her well. They had the same fate, yes, and sometimes they exchanged words, but Freya mostly kept to Sophia’s side and didn’t talk to anyone else much. She sometimes wished she’d feel braver, but if she asked the others about their stories then she’d have to share her own as well.

Telling Sophia that one time had been hard enough, and Freya really doesn’t want to have to go through it again.

Besides, they already look at her with pity. Freya likes that Sophia protects her and is gentle with her, but Sophia also never treats Freya as if she’s made of glass. The others might, though, if they knew all there was to know.

_“What a sweet little face you have. Come and let me look at you properly, my pretty.”_

_Foul breath in her face, and then a mouth on hers, covering half her face, teeth scraping at her skin. Freya struggles, and the man wrenches her arm behind her back to keep her from moving. Freya cries out in pain and begins to cry, but the man only seems to get more excited. He pushes her shorts down, and––_

Freya opens her eyes wide and stares at the sky. She doesn’t want to think about this. It happened a long time ago. She’s not that little girl anymore. In fact, that little girl died on that day and she’s never coming back. She died with her parents in that shack where they lived by the mountains, near a dried up lake, surrounded by tree trunks that used to be a forest.

That place is gone. The shack was burned down, and the little girl who lost her parents stayed behind to burn with them, while this body was taken elsewhere and sold from one slaver to the next. They all took more pieces of her, and finally she was given to the highest bidder. There came a new kind of pain, something her small body wasn’t ready for yet but that was taken from her anyway. She learned not to scream first, and then she learned to go away inside her head and let it happen.

She survived everything, and her reward came one day. Sophia never hurts her even when she touches Freya in all the places others have touched first. Sophia showed her that her body can feel good, too. She’s explained that it only counts when Freya gives herself willingly, and that anyone who’s ever stolen from her what she didn’t want to give, they didn’t really have it after all.

It helped to hear that. Freya’s still afraid of men and what they can do to her, and knowing that Uther didn’t truly take anything from her because she wasn’t giving it willingly never made it hurt any less, but Freya felt like she could breathe again after she met Sophia and _that’s_ what made everything bearable.

Freya strokes the rocks beneath her fingers. The hills look different, as if the small, rippling waves of a well had been turned into stone. The stone’s smooth beneath her hands, just like water too. She enjoys how it feels beneath her fingertips, and so she closes her eyes again and concentrates on what she can feel through touch.

“We believe that they were formed by the Sidhe,” someone says after who knows how long she’s been lying here. Freya slowly drags her eyes open. She must’ve dozed off because the day’s bright now even though the temperature still hasn’t changed.

“The hills, I mean,” the voice says again. Freya realises dimly that she should be frightened that a stranger got this close to her without her noticing. Only yesterday that would’ve induced a panic in her. Only yesterday she would’ve run and hid the second she realised that she wasn’t alone.

But now, here, she’s not scared at all.

“Who’re the Sidhe?” she asks the Druid woman who’s spoken. She’s got light brown hair and a kind face. Freya doesn’t know her name, but she doesn’t feel threatened by her even when the woman steps closer and sits down next to Freya.

“They’re the fair folk that guard the gate to Avalon. Before the Purge, some people called this place _Fairy Glen_ because of the way the hills look. Scientists of that era couldn’t figure out what made the rock face ripple like that, and so it was concluded that magic had been involved.”

Freya runs her fingers over the stones again. She doesn’t know how magic feels, but she knows that the way she feels here is different than anywhere else before.

Then her mind catches on something the woman’s said.

“The gate to Avalon?” she asks. “We thought this place is Avalon?”

“Oh no,” the woman says. “Avalon doesn’t exist in our world. It’s not a real place in that sense. It’s where the fay and spirits live. Humans can’t enter it while alive.”

Freya stares into the sky again, tracking a fluffy cloud. The others have been talking about getting to Avalon so they could find peace and maybe a way to make this world better, but if Avalon isn’t even a real place, and if they can’t go there…

“Will you send us away again?” she asks at length. Having to leave is the worst thing she can imagine right now. For the first time since her parents were killed, Freya feels as if she’s truly safe. She’s sure that no one’s going to hurt her here, and she doesn’t want to ever leave this place again.

The woman takes Freya’s hand and gently squeezes it. “No,” she says warmly. “You can stay for as long as you like, Freya.”

Freya squeezes the woman’s hand back. It doesn’t frighten her that she doesn’t know the woman’s name but that the woman knows Freya’s. She thinks she can finally find some peace and forget all the things that have happened to her since she was small. And this place is almost like the home where her other self died. There are hills, and the mountains aren’t far. There are trees that haven’t been cut down, and a pool with actual water. It’s not a lake, nor a forest, but it’s close enough.

Maybe this place can be home. Maybe Sophia will stay with her. Maybe they could be their own little family.

Freya doesn’t even realise she’s smiling until her cheeks begin to hurt some time later from the unusual exercise.

The place is kind of eerie. The hills look strange, and from every other tent, a pale face is watching them. The temperature is weird too. They must’ve passed some kind of threshold because in one moment, Gwaine could still feel the rising heat of the day, and in the next, it was the perfect temperature – neither too warm, nor too cold, like on a warm spring day back when they had four seasons instead of one.

Leon and Lance are keeping close to him, but Elyan walks ahead of them. He turns his head every which way, searching for his sister, and Gwaine’s honestly surprised that he didn’t start calling for her the moment they stopped their car next to the truck.

They hadn’t tried breaking into it but only because that scary lady on the bridge had forbidden them from stealing anything from the island. All four of them had figured that opening something by force would count, probably. Best not to risk it either way.

So now here they are, in the Druid camp that Gwaine found mostly on instinct, and that Leon had sort of sensed from a few hundred metres away. There’s a weird but not unpleasant energy flowing through this space, and to Gwaine it feels as if there’s a string connecting him to Lance and Leon. Where one of them moves, the others follow.

“Magic, Courage, Strength,” a voice says, and all three of them turn as one to find a kind looking woman watching them. Gwaine recognises her after a moment. It’s the same woman who told him where to find the Druid camp.

He points at her. “I know you.”

The woman smiles warmly. “You do,” she agrees. “We’ve met before when you spared my life.” She steps closer and takes the hand he used to point at her into her hands. “My name is Finna, and I welcome you, Courage.”

She presses his hand against her forehead for a moment, then lets go of it. Before he can ask what she’s doing, she’s moved on to Lance, and does the same thing with his hand.

“I welcome you, Strength,” she says to him, and then steps towards Leon.

Leon’s already holding his hand out for her, and it makes her smile wider. She takes his hand, touches it to her forehead, and says: “I welcome you, Magic.”

Gwaine opens his mouth to finally ask what’s going on, but Finna’s raised two fingers to Leon’s forehead. She’s murmuring something that Gwaine can’t hear, but what must’ve been a magic spell because the next thing that happens is that Leon’s eye glows gold for just a moment before turning blue again.

“What?” Elyan asks, sounding as puzzled as Gwaine feels.

Leon looks the same as before, now that his eye’s got its natural colour back, and yet it’s as if everything’s changed.

Gwaine puts a hand on Leon’s shoulder while Lance winds an arm around Leon’s waist.

“Explain,” Leon says, sounding curious and eager, but Gwaine can tell there’s a healthy dose of fear and trepidation in there somewhere. He squeezes Leon’s shoulder gently. Whatever’s going on, they’ll face it together.

Finna smiles, and nods at them. “Come with me,” she says, and turns to walk towards a rock that’s rising high above the hills. All three of them follow, and then Elyan falls in behind them. Finna stops suddenly, and turns back.

“This is not for you,” she tells Elyan kindly. “You have a different path to walk. You’ll find your sister in that tent over there.” She points to one of the larger tents, and that’s all the incentive Elyan needs. He’s already off, visibly stopping himself from running out of respect for the serenity of the camp.

“Come,” Finna says once Elyan’s gone, and the four of them walk in silence. The scramble up the hill and climb up the rock is a small challenge, even though it shouldn’t be that hard to climb a rock. The three of them have certainly done harder things before.

Finna’s surprisingly spry in climbing up, and she’s waiting for them on top of the small plateau once they get up there. They can overlook the camp entirely from here. Gwaine can see two women lying side by side on another, smaller hill, and he counts two dozen tents scattered between the hills. There’s a pool of water – actual water from the looks of it – and the temperature still hasn’t changed.

Wherever they are, Gwaine doubts it’s all the way in the real world. Maybe he’ll finally find that door back to his non-post-apocalyptic reality.

“They call this rock the Castle Ewen,” Finna says, drawing their attention back to her. “It is said that it was built by the fae to guard this place.”

“And did they?” Lance asks, looking around the plateau as if he expects to find a fairy to appear.

Finna smiles knowingly. “Who knows,” she says. “It’s true though that here, at the Fairy Glen, there’s a gate to Avalon, the world of fairies. It’s a place filled with magic, and the place where this world’s magic went during the Purge.”

“The magic isn’t lost?” Leon asks what all three of them are thinking.

“It is not,” Finna says, nodding. “It’s prophesied that magic will be returned to the world in full by a powerful wizard by the name of Emrys, and a warrior. Together they’ll fight the evil that’s befallen Mother Earth, and return to her what was stolen.”

“Great,” Gwaine says. “And you want us to find that wizard and his warrior?” He’s already thinking about what they’ll need for such a search. Probably one of the Druids to help them sense the magic.

“No,” Finna says, interrupting Gwaine’s planning. “He’s already here, with his warrior. But the both of them will need help to achieve their goal. They’ll need Magic, Courage, and Strength.”

For a long moment, no one says anything, then Leon speaks.

“You called us that. They’re not just traits, they’re… we’re that?”

Finna nods. “The three of you have been chosen by Fate and Mother Earth to help Emrys and Arthur to defeat Emperor Pendragon. They won’t be able to succeed without you. Your greatest virtues will be needed to complete their destiny.”

“Hold up,” Gwaine interrupts, holding up a hand as if to physically stop Finna from saying anything else. “Greatest virtues? Lance is strong, but I’m not sure I’m all that courageous. And Leon doesn’t have magic.”

Finna smiles that knowing smile again.

“These virtues aren’t always to be taken literally,” she says slowly. “However, in your case, they are both. All of you possess these attributes, whether you know it or not.”

Both Lance and Gwaine turn to look at Leon who’s standing between them. Leon looks from one to the other, then shrugs. “I think I felt something when she touched me earlier,” he admits at length. “Like a tingle… a warmth spreading through me.”

Gwaine raises a brow. “You sure it wasn’t an aftershock from what we did yesterday in that forest?”

Leon rolls his eye, but blushes faintly. “I’m sure,” he says.

“But how’s this possible?” Lance asks. “Leon’s never had magic. He would’ve been found out and killed in Camelot if he did.”

Finna nods sagely. “It’s an enormous crime what Uther Pendragon’s been doing.” She reaches out to cup Leon’s cheek, gently stroking a thumb over the tendrils of his scar under his eye. “When this happened, you were saved by someone else’s blood, were you not?” she asks softly.

Leon nods jerkily. As ever when talk turns to Leon’s injury, and how close they came to losing him, Gwaine feels a dark pit open up inside him.

“Whoever gave you their blood, they must’ve had magic, or at least the potential for it. By giving it to you, you’ve received the same gift but because of what Uther’s done to our Mother, it never manifested in you. I woke it in you, and now you must learn to use it, and find its limits by yourself.”

She lets go of him, leaving Leon to stare dumbfoundedly at her.

Gwaine reaches for Leon’s hand and laces their fingers. He can sense Lance doing the same on Leon’s other side. It’s that same feeling of being more closely connected than before as he had earlier. If Finna’s right, if their trio is somehow bound together by fate and destined to help their planet come back to life, it would make sense that they’ve felt drawn to each other all this time.

“Where are Emrys and Arthur?” Gwaine asks, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin. If he’s to be Courage, he better start faking it until he feels it. He just hopes he’ll feel it before it’s too late.

He hesitates before stepping into the tent. In the barracks there was no need – or room – for modesty, as none of them had any privacy left anyway. Doors had been a mostly foreign concept even before that, and yet, Elyan doesn’t feel comfortable just stepping in without announcing himself.

“Gwen?” he calls, hopeful that she’ll hear him and come out. “Gwen, it’s Elyan.”

A second later, he’s got his arms full of his sister. Gwen’s hugging him hard enough to squeeze the air from his lungs, but Elyan doesn’t care. He wraps his arms around her and hugs back just as fiercely.

It’s been two years for both of them he reminds himself, and they each had their horrors to endure.

Eventually he gently pushes her away so he can look at her.

There are no visible scars or injuries on her, her hair’s long and wavy, unlike the short cut she wore before. She’s grown up more, looking more like a woman than the last time he saw her, and she’s dressed in a rough, grey tunic and trousers that look like they were made from the same fabric as Finna’s dress.

“You look good,” he says, voice rough with emotion.

She cups his cheek and smiles her warm, gentle smile, the one that’s so much like mum’s. “You look like you’ve been through a lot,” she says softly. “And tired. Come with me, we’ll talk to Aglain. He’ll know where you can get some food and rest.”

Gwen takes his hand and pulls him away from her tent, deeper into the camp. Elyan follows blindly, concentrating on the feel of his hand in his sister’s. Through all the years, and even during the last day, Elyan hadn’t truly dared to hope that he’d see her again, let alone touch her hand or hug her.

“I couldn’t find dad,” he says as they weave their way between tents and fire pits. “I looked for him after we came to Camelot, but either he’s dead or no one knows his name.”

He can feel her squeeze his hand. “It’s okay,” she says, not looking back as she keeps walking slowly. “I’ve grieved for him and mum a long time ago.”

“I haven’t,” Elyan admits. “I couldn’t. If I did, I’d have to admit that they’re gone and that there’s just you and me left.”

Only when he walks into her does he realise that she’s stopped and turned back to him. Her arms wind around his middle and she rests her forehead against his collarbone.

“It’s not just you and me. We have friends here, and allies. Our parents are gone, yes, but we’re not alone.”

Elyan sighs and puts a hand on top of her head. “You have friends and allies,” he says at length. “I don’t have any of that.”

“But you will,” she says, pulling back to look up at him. “My friends will be your friends, too. And the Druids will be both our friends. I don’t know them any better than you do, yet. But it can all change now.”

She looks so hopeful and optimistic, Elyan doesn’t want to argue with her.

“Let’s meet this Aglain, then,” he says, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He admires Gwen for preserving her sweet and trusting nature despite what she’s been through, but he can’t deny that he’s a little bit jealous of it, too. There’s no reason for him to believe that she’s forgotten everything, or that she wasn’t violated on a regular basis these last two years, but a small, awful part of him thinks that if she’s had it as bad as he did, she wouldn’t talk so easily of finding a new family and having hope for a better future.

Gwen lets go of him and walks ahead once more. As they walk, Elyan hates himself that bit more for wishing that his sister would show more signs of damage, even if it were just so Elyan would know that he’s not the only one of the two of them who’s suffered and worried for the last two years.

_Fay heritage_ , that’s what Aglain said. She’s a descendent of an old bloodline that stems from a Sidhe that was exiled from Avalon and forced to live as a human among men. And through the years, the blood thinned more and more with every generation, but she still carries the seed of that heritage in her and it’s waking up now.

Which means that Sophia is part fay. If that weren’t enough, Aglain had gone on to deliver the news that Sophia’s child also carried that seed and was likely to be born with magical abilities as well.

To which she’d said: “What child? I’m not pregnant!”

And then Aglain had smiled ruefully at her, squeezed her hand, and then left her to her thoughts.

She’s still sitting to the side of one of the firepits, mulling over what she’s learned.

Part fay, and pregnant.

Pregnant from that bastard Uther Pendragon.

Pregnant from her rapist, her abuser, her jailor.

Pregnant with a child that carries on the bloodline of magic.

If she weren’t still angry and shocked she’d probably laugh at the irony of Uther’s child having magic.

As it is, she’s still fighting the urge to find a way to get rid of the little parasite inside her. She’s not sure what stops her. She’s got no emotional connection to this life growing inside her. The fear that it’ll look like Uther, become like Uther is big, and her hatred for the man and what he’s done to her even bigger.

By all rights, she should kill the thing inside her. It has no right to use her body to grow. She never gave permission to have it take seed in her womb, and just the idea of carrying it for nine months, and then caring for it for even longer after that lets bile rise up in her throat.

She falls forward and retches onto the ground. There’s not much inside her stomach to come up, but what little there was now seeps into the dirt beneath her.

Sophia sits back on her heels and wipes her mouth with the sleeve of the tunic the Druids gave her.

She’s got magic, and so does the child inside her.

Without meaning to, she puts a hand on her belly, trying to feel the life.

She feels nothing.

It’s too early for that, she knows that. Alice explained to them how a pregnancy works. Technically, what’s inside her now is barely even a bundle of cells. It won’t be anything close to resembling a human child for a couple more weeks. It would be easy to get rid of it.

“They won’t let you,” a voice says, startling her so badly that she almost falls forward into the puddle of her own sick.

She catches herself in time and gets to her feet instead. Behind her, Morgana stands with a similarly rueful expression as Aglain wore earlier.

“Won’t let me what?” Sophia snaps. “And who’s ‘they’?”

Morgana steps closer and takes a seat on a log a few feet away from where Sophia coughed up her meal. She pats the spot beside her and Sophia goes to her without protest.

“The Sidhe,” Morgana says at length. “They won’t let you kill the child.”

“That’s not their decision to make!” Sophia snaps, because it isn’t. Her body hasn’t belonged to her for over a year, and she only escaped Uther so she could be free to do what she pleases.

Morgana seems to understand that because she nods, even though her expression is grave. She takes Sophia’s hand in hers and holds it in her lap.

“I know,” Morgana says. “It’s unfair, it’s unjust. You’ve lived through so much already and yet they won’t give you this choice either. You’re a daughter of the Sidhe. What’s more, the Sidhe heritage inside you has come alive and is stronger than it has been in generations. All the magic in the realm of mortals is becoming stronger now that Emrys is fighting for us.”

She begins to caress the back of Sophia’s hand with her thumb. Sophia finds it soothing, despite the irony that usually it’s her who does this for Freya.

“The Sidhe might very well offer you to return to Avalon, if that’s what you wish. And even if you don’t, you’re still one of them, no matter what you feel on the matter. Your forefather was banished for killing one of his own kind, another Sidhe. The court of Avalon sentenced him to live out a human life and then die like a human. They also swore that should anyone from his bloodline ever kill another Sidhe, they would wipe out that bloodline for good.”

Sophia gapes. “How do you know all of this?” she asks. “If this happened generations ago, how can you know this for sure? Maybe none of that is true, maybe I’m not one of them.”

Morgana began shaking her head before Sophia had finished speaking.

“I know because the Sidhe told me. I’m a Seer, and they can visit me in my dreams if they so desire. They foresaw that you would want to kill the spawn when you found out, and told me the story of your ancestor to stop you from doing it.”

Sophia pulls her hand out of Morgana’s grasp and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“What if I do it anyway?”

Morgana offers her a sad smile. “They will kill you, as I said. You, and anyone else of your family that might still be alive, no matter where they are. The Sidhe will know and they will find them easily.”

“I’m the only one left. I could just kill myself.”

It’s not even the first time she’s considered this. Soon after she was taken to Uther’s prison, she’d wanted to do it. She’d been too scared then, but not anymore. She could do it now.

“And what will become of the people who would miss you? What good would it do to give your life?” Morgana asks quietly. She’s still looking at Sophia, eyes boring into her as if she’s trying to find the truth inside Sophia’s head – or soul.

It makes Sophia uncomfortable.

“They’d learn to forget me.” Even as she says the words, she knows that it’s not true. Freya would be devastated. She’s already lost so much – more than Sophia ever had in the first place – and if Sophia leaves her as well… Especially if it’s like this. Freya’s heart would break, and she might never recover.

Some might think Sophia’s conceited for believing she could have that much influence on a single person, but she knows Freya, knows how much they love each other.

Morgana is right. Sophia couldn’t kill herself any more than she could a year ago, although the reasons are vastly different.

“So I have to carry this child, and then?” she asks, deflating visibly.

“I believe the Sidhe will offer to take both of you back to Avalon,” Morgana says. “But I don’t think that’s where you want to go, is it?”

Sophia shakes her head. She won’t be allowed to take Freya with her, so what’s the good in going?

“Will they take just the child?” she asks instead.

“I believe they would, yes,” Morgana answers. “It would never know you’re its mother, you’d never see it again. It would outlive you by millenia.”

“I don’t care,” Sophia says. “I didn’t want it in the first place. They can have it. I’d give it to them right now if I could.”

Morgana reaches for her hand again and Sophia lets her take it.

“Carry it to term. There’s still time to decide. The Sidhe won’t claim the baby the moment it’s born.”

Sophia exhales slowly. She wishes they would. She wishes she could pass on this pregnancy onto someone else.

She doubts she’ll ever want to keep this child, but there’s no point in arguing with Morgana. She’s a Seer. Who knows what else she knows that Sophia doesn’t.

Morgana squeezes her hand, much like Aglain had, and then gets up. “Elena’s funeral is about to begin. Let’s join the others.”

Together they walk to the clearing where the pyre has been built. Sophia finds Freya among the bystanders, and takes her hand, lacing their fingers together.

She’ll endure another nine months of slavery if it means she can stay with her through all of it, and for all the time after that.

Later, she watches the funeral pyre for Elena being lit, and for the first time in years, Sophia lets herself cry for everything that she’s lost and is still losing.

They made the pyre a metre high, but unadorned. Morgana tells him that in the days before the Purge, a funeral pyre would be covered in wild flowers. Given that nothing grows these days, there’s not much they can do with what little they have. Even giving that much wood is a sacrifice, and Arthur’s grateful that the Druids are willing to make it for an outsider.

Elena’s body has been washed clean, the wound in her neck sewn shut. They laid her down gently on top of the pyre. She’s naked, taking nothing into the afterlife except her own body. Maybe, in another life, she would’ve received gifts of her most precious possessions but none of them owned anything, and Arthur doubts she would’ve wanted the clothes that Uther let her wear. The Druids had been willing to give her some of their rough shifts and trousers, but the surviving wives of Emperor Uther Pendragon had said that Elena would’ve regarded it as a waste to be clothed in something new only to have it burnt.

The four of them are standing on one side of the pyre, as naked as Elena. Arthur can’t look at them for long without feeling shame well up inside him. He’d never objectify them the same way Uther had done, but looking at them like this, even when they willingly showed their bodies, still felt wrong to him.

In his desire to stop looking at them, he let his eyes travel over the assembled crowd. A lot of the Druids had shown up to pay their respects to a woman they never knew. It touched Arthur that they’d show so much compassion for a stranger.

Merlin stood next to Morgana, Mordred and Morgause. Now that Arthur knows about Emrys, it almost looks like Merlin’s grown taller, broader – stronger. Arthur thinks back to the collapsing bridge, and a shudder runs through him at the thought of how much power Merlin must possess to destroy something so massive in such a short time.

Arthur feels drawn to him, can’t stop looking at him even now. He must’ve washed his face, and found a way to shave. His chin and cheeks look smooth and pale in the dimming light of dusk. Arthur catches himself thinking about touching them to see if they feel as soft as they look.

The thought hits him out of nowhere, and Arthur forces himself to look away and back towards the pyre. He has to concentrate on Elena, not think about Merlin in inappropriate ways. Elena deserves a proper send-off, and all his attention.

Morgause steps forward and lights a torch using magic. She looks delighted for a moment, like a child doing a trick perfectly for the first time. Arthur wonders if her magic’s always been this strong, or if Merlin’s presence has anything to do with it.

She speaks an ancient prayer that Arthur finds difficult to follow. He picks out that the assembled people will watch over Elena as she passes into the Avalon where she’ll find peace and happiness and reunite with those who were dear to her and who’ve been lost to the world this side of the Gate already.

The prayer goes on for a while, the Druids occasionally joining in or answering Morgause, and then, finally, she lights the pyre. The fire catches quickly on the dry wood, and in minutes, the whole thing is burning high into the sky. The Druids settle down on the ground, getting ready to stay with Elena through the night. Arthur watches as some of the women hand Gwen and the others tunics and trousers to wear, and the four of them put clothes back on. Arthur breathes a sigh of relief.

He knows that it’s not their fault that he finds it hard to look at them when they’re naked. And he doesn’t even feel desire for them like he should – at least according to Uther and almost every other man he’s ever met – so, by all means, he should be able to look at them without feeling guilty.

But because he doesn’t feel anything for them beyond the wish to protect them, Arthur thinks there’s something wrong with him.

He settles down on the ground by himself. Merlin’s still with the Druids, and Arthur wonders if he’s avoiding him because of how he spoke to him earlier, or because he doesn’t want to be part of the prophecy.

Watching him doesn’t offer an answer to that question, and eventually Arthur feels just as guilty watching Merlin as he did watching the girls.

Well, not the same kind of guilt. Thoughts of touching him have stolen back into Arthur’s mind, and they confuse him even more than the absence of desire for the girls. Why does he want to touch _Merlin_ , of all people. He’s never wanted to touch someone.

Arthur drags his gaze away, and lands on the four men who’ve arrived in the camp not too long after he did. They’re Devils – were Devils – by the brands on their bodies and the clothes they wear, but Morgana has assured Arthur and the others that they had come to help, and that they would be needed.

Three of them sat close together, while the fourth, Gwen’s brother Elyan, sat off to the side, as close to his sister as he could without getting in the way of the ritual of laying Elena to rest. Arthur wasn’t much interested in him. Elyan looked like a strong fighter, and he clearly cared about his sister a lot to have followed her all the way up here. Arthur remembers Gwen mentioning that Elyan’s her twin so Arthur should’ve expected him to be as stubborn and fierce as her.

The other three, though, interest Arthur far more. One of them has long, shaggy hair and gnarly scars across his face, while another has reddish-blond curls and lost an eye. The third one’s got thick, dark hair, and a beautiful and kind face. They sit close together, the one with the red hair in the middle. Arthur thinks he’s called Leon. The handsome man – Mance, or something like that – is leaning against Leon’s shoulder, and the one with the hair might be called Gwaine. He’s taken Leon’s hand into his and playing with his fingers.

They look perfectly content like this, intimate and comfortable in their closeness and it suddenly occurs to Arthur that they’re together, all three of them.

The thought shakes something loose inside him. It’s not just that it’s three of them, or that they’re men. Arthur’s seen a lot of things in his years working at the citadel. He knows what men do together, even if not from personal experience. They’ve propositioned him often enough but he’s never felt the urge to give in to any of that. He’s never even felt the wish to do it. The few men he found attractive never propositioned him, and Arthur never wanted them badly enough to ask them himself.

However, that’s always been just about sex. Basic needs that need to be met because there were few women at the citadel, and even fewer were _common property_.

Arthur hates himself for even thinking of them like that. No one was anyone’s property, especially not the women forced to entertain the Devils. But they were treated like they belonged to the men, and Arthur did what he could to protect them, often “claiming” them for himself, and then letting them rest in his tiny quarters while he read, or slept on the floor.

They’d offered themselves to him willingly sometimes, or as willingly as they could, given the circumstances. Arthur never accepted them, and they always smiled, kissed his cheek and thanked them for a lovely night.

He hadn’t been able to save Mithian like he should’ve, and he can’t save any of these women the way they deserve, but he did what he could to make life more bearable for them. Arthur shudders when he thinks about how they’ll never have those nights of comfort again if he and Merlin don’t succeed to fulfill the prophecy.

A log on the pyre cracks loudly, and Arthur’s pulled out of his thoughts. His eyes land back on Gwaine, Leon and Lance – that’s his name! – again.

They’re still sitting the same way they did before, and Arthur’s looking at them again just as Gwaine raises Leon’s hand to his mouth and kisses it. He looks reverent as he does it, gentle and caring – loving.

This is not something Arthur’s ever associated with sex, between men or otherwise. Seeing the three of them now makes Arthur wonder if it’s possible for him to love someone, be it another man, or a woman.

He swallows thickly and looks away from the three. Without conscious thought, his eyes land back on Merlin – whom he finds watching him in return.

Arthur feels himself blush, and he quickly looks down at his own hands, only now realising that he’s picked apart a twig that must’ve fallen to the ground while the Druids had assembled the pyre.

_Love_ , he thinks. Gaius has spoken of it, sometimes even in relation to Uther, and Arthur’s mother. Arthur can’t imagine that Uther ever loved anyone besides himself, but Gaius assures him that he had, in his own way.

Merlin sits down next to him, and Arthur’s years of training keep him from jumping in surprise, but it’s a near thing. He’s been deep in thought for a while already, long enough that he hasn’t noticed that some of the Druids are walking around the pyre, stoking the fire and adding more logs to it. It’s completely dark around them, and Arthur wonders how much time’s already passed.

Thankfully, Merlin doesn’t say anything, and instead leans against him. With the contact comes the soft, tingling feeling again that runs over Arthur’s skin every time they touch. It settles into a gentle fluttering inside his stomach after a little while, and Arthur begins to feel pleasantly warm.

All thoughts about love can wait. They have a destiny to complete, and now, with what Arthur knows about Merlin, the fluttery, tingly feeling finally makes sense. It’s Merlin’s magic reaching out to Arthur, because it’s known all along that they’re supposed to work together.

Arthur leans into Merlin as well, and they stay together for the rest of the night, always touching in some way. By the time they part in the morning, once the pyre has burned down and Elena’s gone forever, all it takes is a look at Merlin, or the sound of his voice, to bring back that pleasant tingle inside Arthur.

The plan, when it comes down to it, is actually rather simple. It’s just that it’s also reckless and therefore dangerous.

They’ll take the truck and as many Druids and allies that want to come and drive back to Camelot. They’ll fight Uther and anyone else in their way, and they’ll conquer the citadel.

Of course, it’s not actually that easy. For one thing, the border bridge is broken, and so Merlin will have to repair it before they can cross. Then there’s the small issue of the Sarrum who’s been left in charge at the border to secure Uther’s claim on the territory. Finally, there’s Uther who’s anywhere between the border and Camelot with who knows how many Devils at his back.

Merlin’s glad they have the advantage of knowing at least that much about the situation. Morgana’s slept without the bracelet for another night to see if she’d learn anything, and she did indeed.

Gwaine, Lance and Leon will go through the smugglers tunnel to scout the situation on the other side of the border. Neither of them looked excited about the prospect of going through the tunnel again, but it’s the only way across the border apart from the bridge, and if necessary, they might have to create a diversion on the South side of the wall so Merlin will have time to work his magic on the bridge.

He doesn’t have to rebuild it exactly, but they need some kind of passage to get the truck across at least.

So far, Merlin, Arthur and Gwen are going back, as well as Leon, Lance, Gwaine and Elyan. From the Druids, Morgana, Mordred, and a few others will join them. Morgause, however, has to stay on the island since she’s the high priestess. Aglain, a healer among the Druids, offered to stay in her stead to guard the island, but Morgause insisted that she needs to stay until Uther’s vanquished.

Merlin both minds and doesn’t mind her decision. She’s a strong ally with her renewed magical powers, but she’s also intense and a bit scary.

Vivian’s of course in no condition to join them, and Sophia decided to stay, so naturally Freya isn’t going either. It’s just as well; Merlin wouldn’t have wanted Freya with them anyway. She seems so frail and he’d rather not have to worry about her. Sophia might’ve been an asset but he’s not going to persuade her, even if he wanted to try. Plus, there’s something about Sophia that’s changed since they arrived on the island. Merlin’s been meaning to ask Morgause about it, or maybe Morgana, but so far he hasn’t had the chance yet, and it’s not that important for him to know.

Maybe it’s just that she finally feels free, or maybe it’s the magic of the place causing a change inside her. Whatever it is, it makes her look both angrier and more at ease, so maybe it’s just as well that Merlin doesn’t know.

That means that they’re about a dozen people going back to Camelot, with three of them as scouts and/or distraction squad. Merlin’s still sceptical about the fighting skills of the Druids if he’s honest, but all of their magic has awoken and flourished since Merlin entered the camp two days ago. They all assure him that they’ve learned how to shoot and fight a long time ago as a necessary skill to defend themselves whenever they leave the island to get supplies from one of the few dwellings in the north country, or directly from Manchester.

Merlin’s willing to take their word for it – what else is he supposed to do anyway? – and told them to talk to Arthur about strategy and where they’ll be stationed on the truck. Some of them, those who regularly leave the camp, have their own motorbikes, and there’s one working pickup truck. They’re leaving the pickup for the remaining Druids so they’ll have a supply vehicle, but any Druid able to drive a motorcycle is taking one.

If everything goes to plan, they’ll be able to return to the island, and it seems that no one’s worried about the other option so Merlin tries not to think about it either.

Arthur’s the one who’s actually planning the whole thing. He’s got far more experience about all of this, plus he knows Camelot well enough to direct them towards the weak points. They’re hoping that their attack will be a surprise – who’d come back willingly, after all? If Uther expects them, then Arthur’s intimate knowledge of the citadel probably won’t be of any use, but they have no reason to suspect that Uther’s awaiting them or that he’s even made it as far as Camelot yet. He’s had enough time to return but he might’ve chosen to remain at the border or close to it now that he’s got the opportunity to expand into the north country.

After all, they only need to rebuild the bridge – which means they might’ve already started and thus make it easier for Merlin to get them across – and then Uther should, theoretically, be able to invade.

Merlin hopes they’ll manage to cross the border and defeat him before then but they’re prepared – mentally, if nothing else – for all other options.

It’s been a day since Elena’s funeral. All of them slept through most of it, and only woke during the late hours of the afternoon, and after they’ve had some food, almost all of them set to work to prepare for their departure. Arthur oversaw the truck himself, making sure it’s refuelled and all canisters topped up. They won’t be taking the pod with them, instead leaving the remaining fuel to the Druids who’re staying on the island. It’ll come in handy as currency, if nothing else.

After the sun goes down, they all sit down for a last meal together. Morgause sends a prayer to Mother Gaia, both a thank you for doing her best to provide for them while she’s so weak, and a plea to help Emrys and Arthur on their quest as best she can. As ever when the Druids refer to him as Emrys and remind him of the great expectations they’re placing on him, Merlin blushes, and looks away.

He’s not sure he can be what all of them expect of him, but he knows that his magical power is greater than anyone else’s, and that he can transfer it to others without losing any of it. He’ll use that gift as best he can to protect himself, the Druids, Gwen and her brother, and of course Arthur.

Arthur, whose destiny it is to help Merlin save the world.

Arthur, who only needs to stand close to Merlin, or say something where Merlin can hear his voice to make Merlin’s skin rise up in goosebumps. It’s been like this since last night, after they sat close together all night during Elena’s wake.

Merlin wonders if it’s a reaction to Arthur himself, or the destiny they share, and what it means if it’s the first.

It might not mean anything, of course. They’ve been through a lot together in just two days – that’s bound to create a bond between anyone. However, Merlin doesn’t feel like this when he talks to Gwen, the only other person from the journey with whom he feels a deeper connection. Not even the fact that Gwen knew his secret first changes that.

It might mean a lot of things, though. Merlin’s never felt like this with anyone before, and yes, maybe it’s just Mother Gaia pushing them together every way she can so they’ll do their bit and revive her. Or, maybe, it’s genuine affection between them, despite the short time they’ve known each other and the animosity they felt in the beginning. They were each just trying to protect themselves, it’s only natural to be wary of strangers.

There’s a bond there now, though, no matter what’s caused it, and Merlin’s sure that Arthur can feel it too. He just doesn’t know what they should do about it.

Well, nothing, for the moment. They’ve got a job to do, a quest to complete, and a prophecy to fulfill, et cetera. Who knows if they’ll even survive any of that. There’s a pretty good chance that one of them will die, if not both.

Fuck, Merlin hopes that won’t be the case. He really doesn’t want to have come all this way, and rediscovered his magic only to get killed halfway to his goal. And what would happen to his destiny if he did die, anyway? Would all his magic be absorbed? Is that what he needs to do to revive Mother Gaia? God, he hopes not.

“Time to go,” Arthur says, clapping a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and effectively putting an end to his gloomy thoughts. Warm tendrils snake across his skin from the spot where Arthur’s touching him, and he calms down almost instantly. No matter what their destiny will bring, Arthur will be with him, and Merlin feels safe in that knowledge.

He rises to his feet, immediately regretting the loss of Arthur’s hand on him. For a moment he considers touching him back in some way, but quickly discards the idea. There’s no telling how Arthur would react, and Merlin can’t jeopardise the comfort they’ve built between them for a simple desire such as running his palm over Arthur’s arm, or down his back.

There’ll be time to figure out what they are to each other – or what they could be – once all of this is over. For now they have a war to fight and win, and to live through it to enjoy the result.

Together, Merlin and Arthur lead their group of rebels out of the camp to drive off into the night.

Magic.

Actual magic.

That he’s able to use.

Leon still feels like he’s been steamrolled. One moment he’s wondering where they’ll go from here, and in the next he’s told that he’s got some kind of magical quest to complete with Gwaine and Lance’s help.

How has this become his life?

He almost snorts at this thought. How has _this_ become his life? He’s been living in a post-apocalyptic dystopia for over twenty years but having magic is what shocks him?

The three of them are in the car on the way back south. They were the first ones to leave shortly after darkness fell. Arthur decided that they all should leave after it got dark so they’d reach the border in daylight. Sneaking single people across or below it might be easier in the dark, but Merlin would need light by which to see to restore the bridge, and most of the fighters prefer to see what they’re shooting at, too.

Leon still thinks that using Lance, Gwaine and him as bait for a distraction isn’t the best plan, but he won’t argue that Arthur is a born leader with solid strategic skills. Gwaine’s much more sceptical about it all, saying that the three of them combined have more experience in the field than Arthur could ever hope to have, but he’s the only one who argued against the plan. It took both Lance and Leon a while to persuade Gwaine to go along with it, but together they managed.

So now, here they are, heading back south the same way they came, sans Elyan. He’s riding on the truck with his sister. Leon prefers the car with just his two men anyway.

For a while now he’s been sitting in the back, opening and closing his right fist to recreate the spell that Morgause had taught him. It’s the only one she’s shown him because there wasn’t more time for anything else, and he can’t even make it work now.

Morgause has told him not to worry too much about it all. She said that his magic would come to his aid when he needed it regardless of spells or practice.

_“It has done so in the past, it will do it again,” she’d said with a knowing smile._

_Leon had asked what she meant and she’d reached out to stroke her fingers over the scar tissue of his eye._

_“You were almost dead, were you not?” she asked, that smile never wavering._

_“It’s the blood transfusion that saved me, and gave me magic,” he’d confirmed. That’s what Finna had said. Usually he doesn’t let anyone except Gwaine and Lance touch him there, but Morgause’s hand was gentle and warm. It was almost as if he’d had no scars and could feel her touch on his unmarred skin._

_“It’s both of those that saved you,” she explained. “You needed the blood but it alone couldn’t save you. That’s what the magic did. No other donor could’ve done for you what this soul did. Do you know who they were?”_

_Leon shook his head. “No, I was unconscious for the first week or so, and when I woke up the donor was gone already.”_

_Morgause ran her fingers over the scar again, then down his neck to his chest. She’d placed her hand above his heart. “It was Emrys,” she’d said. “It’s his blood that runs through your veins, and his magic that saved your life and gave you powers. That’s why your abilities have woken up now, just like his. Everyone who received blood from him will soon feel the change in them.”_

_She’d pushed against his chest as if to demonstrate how the magic had gone into him, and Leon couldn’t help but stare at her._

Lance’s hand on his thigh brings Leon back to the present. Slowly he exhales, then inhales, concentrating on the flow of energy he can feel inside him. Morgause had shown him how to find it inside himself, but Leon still only found it half the time.

Slowly, he closes and opens his fist once more, concentrating on channeling that energy into his palm, into the right shape. This time when he opens his hand, there’s a small flame dancing on his palm, hot to the touch for anyone except Leon.

Lips brush his cheek. “Well done, love,” Lance murmurs and leans against Leon’s shoulder to watch the flame flicker.

Magic.

It changes everything.

It turns out that sending the scouts ahead was a waste of time and resources. While they must’ve slipped past the convoy easily during the night, Arthur and his fellowship run directly into them only a few kilometres away from the border.

Of course it’s Uther right at the head, followed by countless vehicles. Where he’s got them from is anyone’s guess. Arthur was sure they’d decimated his army quite a bit.

Then again, it’s been a few days and Uther has had time to send for reinforcements from Camelot and his allies by now. That’s probably how he got another bridge set up so quickly as well.

In hindsight, Arthur should’ve anticipated this.

Now the reinforced army hurtles towards them and Arthur’s feeling not just a little bit nervous. In theory, this was going to be easy. Find Uther, kill him, restore magic.

Nothing’s ever that simple though, and Arthur’s keenly aware of all the – very few but all the more valuable – lives under his command that are at stake now.

There’s Mordred right beside him in the passenger seat, keeping an eye on the side and front with Arthur. Merlin’s on the roof of the cabin, using the higher vantage point to oversee the convoy and the route. Their theory is that the more space and visibility he has, the better he’ll be able to defend them with his magic.

Gwen and Elyan are at the back of the truck. Arthur’s not happy to have Gwen in such an exposed, dangerous spot – although she is, currently, the furthest away from the action. Still, there’s not much shelter back there, and it’s only her and Elyan in that position, not counting the motorbikes trailing and flanking the truck.

Arthur had tried to keep her in the cabin but Gwen had almost punched him at the mere suggestion. She’d said she didn’t flee from Uther to freedom just to play it safe and be a pretty trophy that needs to be protected. She’d said that she’s been shooting guns since she was a teenager (at which point some of the older Druids shared amused glances because Gwen’s still only eighteen) and she’s not afraid of those bloody Devils. She’d said that unless there’s an important strategic reason for why she should ride in the cabin with Arthur, he better put her somewhere on the truck to defend them, or else.

He might not like it, but Gwen is right, so he put her in the back where she’ll be as safe as he can keep her under the circumstances. Elyan will be with her, and Arthur hopes that her brother can make sure she doesn’t go overboard with her newfound freedom to act as she pleases. As much as Arthur supports her to make her own decisions, he’s worried she’s overcompensating for years of oppression.

Not that he’d make the mistake of mentioning that to Gwen.

Morgana, as much a born fighter as Gwen, opted to defend the truck from the top of the tank. She picked two more Druids to go with her, and now the three of them are manning the small battle station in the middle of the tank’s roof.

Edwin’s about Morgana’s age but his eyes look much older. Most of his face is badly burnt and Arthur wonders what the story behind that is. He’s not going to ask. Most likely he’ll hear yet another horrific tale of something Uther’s done in the name of “saving Albion”.

Kara, on the other hand, is a sweet-faced young woman. She and Mordred seem to be close, going by the way Mordred’s expression turned unhappy and worried when Morgana asked Kara to join her on the tank. Mordred knew better than to argue, though. Arthur almost offered him a spot on the tank as well, but Mordred pre-empted him by requesting to ride in the cabin to facilitate between Arthur and the others, and to keep an extra pair of eyes on the road. Arthur rather preferred an ally in the passenger seat on this mission, so he’d agreed easily.

And now, with a dozen more Druids on bikes surrounding them, they’re running straight into Uther’s arms.

Great.

The first shots go off as soon as they’re close enough to hit anything, and then a surge of power makes Arthur’s ears ring for a moment. A bunch of Devils in smaller cars are hurled off the road to the side.

Arthur’s still charging straight ahead, banking on having the stronger vehicle and effectively bowling a bunch of cars over. He’s sure that if he hits Uther’s truck, Arthur would win, but mere seconds before the impact, Uther swerves to the side and out of Arthur’s line of sight.

More Devils shoot at them, Arthur can hear the storm of bullets hitting the side of the tank. He trusts that a good portion of those shots are coming from their own side as well, but it’s hard to tell from his position. Mordred can’t seem to figure it out either because while he keeps whipping around from side to side to see as much as he can, he’s not commenting.

To be honest, Arthur prefers not to know in detail what’s going on anyway.

A bullet breaks through the glass of a side window and both Arthur and Mordred duck. Unfortunately, Arthur loses control of the truck in the heat of the moment, and it veers to the left, almost driving off the road. On the upside, he hit at least one enemy vehicle, going by Mordred’s shouts.

Arthur’s about to raise his left fist to bump it to Mordred’s, but then he spots Uther’s truck out of the corner of his eye. It’s coming up on his right side, large spikes extending from the wheels and sides. He’s driving deliberately close in an attempt to slash their tyres or rip up their shell, and Arthur refocuses his entire attention to evading these manoeuvres.

That’s why he doesn’t immediately notice that a Devil has managed to break into the cabin on the passenger side. It’s Mordred’s shout that finally makes him aware that there’s a fight going on in the seat beside him.

A fire blast from the cabin’s roof finally pushes Uther back several hundred metres, and then Arthur can chance a look at the attacker.

It’s a skinny, pale kid but he must be strong because Mordred, who’s just as young but a little bulkier thanks to doing physical labour all his life, is struggling to fight him off. Granted, the confined space might have something to do with that, too. Mordred’s not exactly a born fighter – at least not in hand to hand combat – and while he’s strong and fast, the Devil has had formal training and has been brainwashed into grim determination.

The last thing Arthur catches is the glint of a blade in Mordred’s hand.

If the Devil had a weapon, he would’ve used it already, so Arthur trusts Mordred’s dagger is going to put an end to this quickly. He turns back to face the front, running into another enemy vehicle when it tries to cut him off.

Mordred’s howl of pain is the only warning Arthur gets, and then a sharp, burning pain stabs into his bare side.

Arthur lets out a scream, and acts on pure instinct, extending the blade from his right arm and ramming it into the Devil’s chest.

Unfortunately, all the movement has caused the dagger to twist and now Arthur can feel warm blood run down his side.

His blood.

Fuck.

It’s been going so well, even with the surprise attack long before they anticipated any complications.

They have the superior truck, and they don’t have to rely solely on guns and ammunition to fight against Uther and the Devils. Morgana, Edwin and Kara have been doing fantastic jobs at using their magic to fight off attackers, and in between all of the spells and instinctive magic, Merlin could still hear Gwen and Elyan firing their guns, as well as Morgana firing the shotgun she insisted on taking.

To be fair, she’s handling it expertly.

He wishes he’d realised sooner that Uther had come up on their right side, but he was busy paving the way ahead of them _and_ fighting off some of the more adventurous Devils who were using catapults to attack them – or to simply throw themselves on top of the truck.

When he finally hears the screeching sound of metal on metal, he immediately hurls fire at Uther, hoping that his engine might catch it and make his truck explode.

No such luck, unfortunately. The vehicle pulls away just in time and Uther disappears behind the truck.

Merlin’s still busy cursing his luck when he hears Arthur scream in pain, and then the truck swerves so hard that Merlin almost falls off the roof.

Then another scream, angry and from the rear of the truck, sounds, and Merlin whips his head around.

“What happened?” he shouts towards the station on the tank, hoping that one of the three fighters there will know more

“Gwen fell off and was caught by a Devil!” Kara shouts back, and Merlin’s blood freezes. He’s about to climb off the roof onto the tank, when another voice shouts his name.

“Merlin! Help! He’s injured!”

That’s Mordred’s voice and the only one he can mean is Arthur.

Arthur’s injured. Badly enough that Mordred’s calling for help.

Gwen’s been taken, and she’s in danger.

Arthur is Merlin’s destiny. Without him, there’s no resurrection for Albion.

Merlin wastes no more time and slides down into the cabin as quickly as he can. What he finds is a dead Devil bleeding out from a gaping chest wound, Mordred holding his right arm close to his chest with tears and panic in his eyes, and Arthur, bleeding heavily from a stab wound in his side, the dagger still embedded in his flesh.

“Arthur!” Merlin shouts, and scrambles to get behind him. Arthur’s gripping the wheel as tightly as he can, but his face is going pale and Merlin guesses that the only thing keeping him awake and on track is the fact that if they slow down, they’ll be overrun by Devils.

His first priority now is to get Arthur stabilised, and to keep moving forward.

“It’s going to be okay,” Merlin promises Arthur. “I’ll take care of you. Just hold on a bit longer.”

He touches Arthur’s shoulder for a moment, pushing some of his magic into him, hoping that it’s going to give him enough strength to keep going for a bit longer.

Arthur’s face doesn’t regain any of his colour, but his grip on the wheel tightens just a fraction.

“Okay,” Merlin breathes, then climbs over the back of the front seat.

“Let me have a look at your arm,” he says to Mordred, scooting closer to inspect it. It’s definitely dislocated, and popping it back into the joint will be painful, but it needs to be done.

“Mordred,” Merlin says. “I need to reset your shoulder, and I won’t lie to you, it’s going to hurt a lot. But the longer we wait, the worse it’ll get, and I need you to drive the truck so I can take care of Arthur. Do you think you can do it?”

Mordred nods shakily, but his eyes betray how afraid he is.

“Good,” Merlin praises, and then gets to work. He’s had to reset his own shoulder in the past, but he can’t really tell Mordred to roll around on the floor until it pops back in.

“It’s okay to scream if it hurts,” Merlin tells him. “And it’s okay to cry.”

Mordred looks more scared now, but Merlin prefers him scared than trying to put on a brave face.

“I’ll do it on three,” he tells him when he’s got the arm in the right position, and Mordred gives him another shaky nod.

He does it on two, before Mordred can tense up any further. The boy screams, as expected, but his cries quickly turn into quieter sobs, and once Merlin’s shared some of his magic with Mordred, he calms down entirely.

“You did well,” Merlin praises. “Incredibly well. Arthur’ll lock down the accelerator, but I need you to steer from the passenger seat. Do you think you can do that?”

“I can,” Mordred says.

“Okay, good man.” Merlin cups the back of Mordred’s neck for a moment, locking eyes with him. What he sees gives him confidence. Mordred’s determined to help, to push through the pain and to get them out of here.

Merlin lets go of him and turns around to Arthur instead. He’s looking even worse now, sweat beading on his forehead. When Merlin touches it, Arthur’s skin is cold and clammy.

“Arthur,” he says. “Lock down the accelerator. Mordred’s taking over the wheel and you’re going to be okay soon, you hear me? Do it now.”

The truck speeds up a moment later, and Arthur nods to indicate that he’s done it. With that, Merlin climbs back over the seat and gets behind Arthur, as close as the backrest will allow.

He cradles Arthur’s cheek in his right hand, pulling his head back to rest against Merlin’s shoulder.

“I’m here, Arthur,” he says into Arthur’s ear. “You’re badly hurt but you’ll be fine, you hear me? This isn’t going to kill you. We need you. _I_ need you. So you better start fighting, you hear me?”

Arthur nods sluggishly and Merlin strokes his fingers over Arthur’s cheek in reply.

“Okay. I have to pull out the dagger. That’s going to hurt, but I need you to press your hand to the wound as soon as the blade’s out. Can you do that?”

Merlin’s ripping off a piece of his shirt and thrusts it into Arthur’s left hand.

“Can you do it?” he asks again, more urgently now because every second they lose, Arthur’s dying.

“Yeah,” Arthur croaks.

“Okay, on three. One––”

Merlin doesn’t wait for three this time either, and instead pulls the dagger out and lets it drop to the floor. He tugs at Arthur’s hand and together they press the piece of cloth against the wound. It only takes second for it to be soaked with Arthur’s blood and Merlin tries not to think about how warm and sticky it feels as it runs over his fingers.

Arthur’s breathing is turning shallower with every breath he drags in, and Merlin forces himself to stay calm and focused.

He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the side of Arthur’s neck, the skin just as sweaty and cold as on his face. Merlin forces down another surge of panic, and focuses.

He concentrates hard on finding his magic within him. It’s everywhere inside him now, but it’s got a core somewhere and that’s what Merlin needs right now. His raw power, untamed.

Finding it is easy though, as if his magic wants him to access his entire potential. Maybe it does. After all, Arthur’s his destiny, and he’s Arthur’s. They’ve got things to do, worlds to rejuvenate. Of course his magic wants him to save Arthur.

The feeling of warmth and lightness tingles through Merlin and it takes no effort to push his magic into Arthur now. Maybe it’s the skin to skin contact, or their pre-existing bond, or just the fact that Merlin’s hand rests on Arthur’s open wound, a direct connection to his bloodflow.

Whatever it is, Merlin’s magic flows into Arthur, as easy as Arthur were another part of Merlin, just an extension of his own body.

_He might be_ , a voice inside Merlin whispers. _Two halves of a whole._

The wound knits shut on Arthur’s side. It’s probably going to leave a gnarly scar, but at least it’s closed and no longer letting any precious blood escape.

Merlin doesn’t stop there, though. He reaches deeper with his magic, and now that it’s inside Arthur, Merlin can feel every part of Arthur too. The heaviness of his right arm, the pull and discomfort of the long-healed brand on Arthur’s chest, the emotional hurt from watching his own father hurt and kill thousands of innocent people.

His chest aches with the phantom pain of the burden Arthur’s been shouldering for so long, but he forces himself to move on, to find the place where the dagger cut into Arthur’s insides. Only after he’s healed that part does Merlin allow himself to retreat. Arthur’s breathing has stabilised but he’s still feeling cold to the touch.

Merlin raises his head and presses his lips to Arthur’s temple.

“Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back,” he murmurs as quietly as he can to still be heard, and then pulls away to survey the situation and make a plan.

Now that his connection to Arthur’s broken, the noise of their surroundings crashes back into him, and Merlin realises that Morgana has joined them in the truck’s cabin. He doesn’t ask how she knew but he’s grateful that she’s here. Together, they manage to get Arthur out of the driver’s seat.

Morgana takes over the wheel from Mordred as soon as Arthur’s lying down.

“Gwen fell off when the truck swerved,” she explains. “Right into the hands of the Devils. Elyan couldn’t get to her in time.”

Merlin curses angrily but Morgana cuts him off mid-rant.

“She’ll be okay. I can tell that Gwen’s strong. She’ll hold out until we can get to her, and probably meet us halfway to her own rescue.”

“I hope you’re right,” Merlin says, and then turns back to Arthur. The wound’s closed, but he’s still pale. Merlin knows what he needs to do, and before he can voice the thought, Mordred produces a tube and needles for a blood transfusion.

Makes him wonder at how well stocked this truck is, and what kind of contingencies Arthur was expecting to have packed that equipment in the first place.

The blood flows slowly through the tube into Arthur’s arm, but Merlin watches as Arthur’s cheeks stop looking so sallow.

“We’ll get her back,” Merlin says.

“We will,” she agrees, and then disengages the accelerator to take complete control over the truck.

One moment she was shooting her gun, keeping half a dozen Devils at bay, and in the next, the truck lurched, she dropped her gun, and then she fell off the damn thing after all.

She could hear Elyan shouting her name but she’d been caught by someone else before she hit the ground. For a moment she’d thought that it might’ve been Merlin’s magic again, but then she realised that they were the rough hands of a Devil, and that she’s ended up right back where she’d started two years ago.

Gwen suppresses the urge to cry – it’s not the time or place to show weakness. She’s trapped against a Devil’s sweaty chest, and her attempts at twisting free, kicking or biting them have been met with a stronger grip on her arm and the threat of breaking it.

They might not actually go through with it if push came to shove, since they regard her as Uther’s property, and damaging her might result in a harsh punishment for them – but she doesn’t want to chance being entirely defenseless against Uther either way.

Unfortunately, their respect for Uther’s property does not extend to not groping her. Gwen supposes she ought to be grateful that all they can think of is to fondle her breasts and touch her face. She tries to excuse their behaviour by telling herself that they’re just boys who’re near a woman for the first time in their lives – it doesn’t change the fact that Uther’s toxic society cultivated this kind of behaviour and that she deserves better than to be treated like an object.

They hand her over to Uther’s bodyguard a moment later, and the groping finally stops.

The hunk of a man touches her almost gently as he settles her on the wide passenger seat, and it surprises Gwen enough to make her forget that she meant to spit in his face. In fact, when she gets a good look at him, she gets the impression he’d like to spit himself in the face.

Interesting.

“There you are, my dear,” Uther drawls, and only now does Gwen turn to look at him.

He looks the same, of course. Armour, balding head, cold eyes – nothing’s changed about him, and yet everything has. He no longer looks like the intimidating dictator he is. All Gwen can see is a bitter, greedy, old man.

If it weren’t for the horrors he’s inflicted on her and countless other people, she’d be able to pity him.

Instead what she feels coming over her is a sense of calm. She’s been captured twice, she lost her brother twice – possibly forever this time – and she’s got no family left except for the friends fighting with her.

She’s got nothing at all to lose, except her life, and if Uther hasn’t realised yet that that makes her far more dangerous and fearless than anyone else he’s dealt with in the last two decades, then he’s even more of an old, blind fool than she thought.

“Tie her up,” Uther commands his bodyguard, and Gwen’s hands are seized tightly behind her back in one single but firm grip. Rope loops around her wrists and her wrists are starting to hurt from the grip. Uther must enjoy the pained look on her face because he leers at her and winks before turning back to face the road. Gwen can already see the outline of the border wall. Just a few more minutes and they’ll reach it.

The hand around her wrist loosens and Gwen expects the rope to bite into her skin more sharply instead, but what she feels is… nothing.

Fighting not to betray her surprise to Uther, and not to pull her hands to her front to see that they’re truly not bound together, Gwen darts a careful glance at the face of Uther’s bodyguard.

His expression gives away nothing but a moment later the handle of a gun is nudged into her right hand, and Gwen grips it tightly.

Even though the urge to shoot Uther right away is strong, Gwen needs to ask a few questions first. She needs to know if he feels anything when he commits his horrendous crimes, or if he’s already so lost that there’s no point in trying to let him redeem himself.

Gwen doubts anyone’s going to show him mercy, but just to see how he’ll react to it, Gwen wants to try. She wants to be sure that Uther’s beyond redemption before she passes her final judgement.

“Why are you doing all of this?” she asks, and when she receives no reply, she goes on to ask what she’s been wondering for years. “How can you sleep at night, hurting so many people? Are you so cold and numb that you don’t even hear the screams anymore? Do you not see the faces of the people you’ve hurt?”

Uther doesn’t even flinch, but he turns to look at her for a moment, eyes cold and expression impassive.

“What do you know, hm?” he asks, his voice as calm and controlled even though the white of his knuckles betrays how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. Before he continues to speak he averts his eyes to look back at the road. “I did what I had to do to save this country from magical harlots and charlatans.”

“Save it?” Gwen asks incredulously. “Look around you, Uther. This country isn’t saved, it’s _dead._  The whole world is dying and it’s _your_ fault. How can you not realise that you’ve destroyed everything that was good in the world?”

“I saved us!” Uther insists, voice louder now, angrier. “It’s harsh but that only means that those that survive deserve to live. The magicals were going to kill us all. Thanks to me, humanity gets to survive and rebuild!”

Gwen shakes her head in disbelief. “You really believe that, don’t you? You see yourself as the big saviour who’s delivered us from certain death.”

“Of course I am,” Uther snaps.

“And that’s why you think you have a right to take whatever you want,” Gwen cuts in before Uther can say more. “You believe you saved us, so your payment is whatever you deem fit, be it things or people. To you it’s all the same isn’t it?”

“I deserve respect and loyalty for my achievements,” Uther growls. Gwen sees how tense his body is turning, and she can sense the responding tension in the man behind her. She wills him to stay still and not react before she’s ready. If he trusts her to kill Uther, he needs to wait until she’s ready. After all, Gwen’s waited two years for the opportunity, and she wants to make sure Uther knows who’s killed him.

“No. You deserve to burn in hell and live through worse pain than I and everyone else endured at your hands,” Gwen says, voice even. “But there can be no hell worse than the one you’ve created. You’re no saviour. You’re not even human anymore, if you ever were. The only good thing you ever made is your son and you cast him away as soon as he stopped doing what you wanted. Arthur’s a hundred times the man you are.” She’s proud that her voice never wavered, never rose. Uther will think she’s meek and scared, and that’s the idea. She wants him to be off his guard.

Unfortunately, Uther’s not just underestimating Gwen, he’s also getting angry. Gwen only realises that she’s pushed him a little bit too far when her head snaps to the side from the force of the impact of Uther’s hand. The bodyguard behind her’s got his hand on her shoulders, steadying her so she won’t fall off the seat. Gwen’s just glad she didn’t accidentally brace herself with her free hand.

Her ears are ringing and her head’s hurting but Gwen slowly turns her face back to him, a small, satisfied smile playing around her lips. Now that she’s already gone this far, she sees no point in holding back. Beating her is the last thing Uther will do and Gwen’s going to make him pay for it either way. At least now she gets to say everything she’s bottled up for years.

“Arthur will undo everything you’ve done. He’ll repair what you’ve destroyed, and he will be loved, and respected, and people will remember him fondly. No one will remember you, Uther, except as the demon who cursed Mother Earth and almost destroyed as all.”

“What does a worthless whore like you know? You’re just a brown cunt that’s barely good enough for getting fucked. If you didn’t have such nice tits, I’d have given you to the troops long ago.”

Gwen feels the bodyguard behind her tense but he doesn’t make any further move, leaving the situation entirely in her hands. Her smile grows wider, more dangerous, and Uther still doesn’t realise that he’s digging himself deeper into his own grave.

“I know a lot more than you think, Uther Pendragon. I know that for all the slurs you’re hurling at me, you’re even more worthless than you think _I_ am. I know that you rape and beat women to make yourself feel strong. I know that you cling to your hateful beliefs because you’re too weak to admit that all you are is a small, pitiful man who can’t cope with the death of his wife. And I know above all else that your time is almost over.”

Uther scoffs but Gwen continues undeterred. “You can laugh all you want, but I know how you’ll die, and when. Would you like me to tell you? It’s much sooner than you think.”

Uther starts laughing then, and Gwen decides that it’s time. They’re almost at the border, and she wants this done before Uther has a chance to have her carried off.

Slowly she pulls her hand from behind her back, raising the gun to Uther’s head. Uther’s still chuckling when he turns to look at her, presumably to insult her some more. The last thing she sees on his face is the realisation that she indeed does know how he’s going to die – and when.

The shot rings loud in her ears, and the blood and brains splattered on the side window make her gag, but the bigger problem is the dangerously swerving car. Shooting the driver was, from a strategic point of view, not her best idea.

However, the bodyguard surprises her for the third time in a row when he drags Uther’s body out of the seat, giving Gwen space to take the wheel. Gwen watches with amazement as this hunk tosses Uther’s lifeless body into the backseat as if it weighed nothing and meant even less to him. While Gwen steers, the man finds a piece of white fabric – Gwen recognises it as the same kind of cloth that she was forced to wear while under Uther’s rule – ties it around his wrist, rolls down the window, and holds his arm out.

Artwork by [whimsycatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher), rebloggable on [tumblr](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/165458922678).

_It’s a flag to signal surrender_ , she realises. _He’s making sure none of my friends are going to shoot at us._

“What’s your name?” she asks once she’s found her voice again.

“Percival,” he says curtly, glancing over at her for a moment, then back out the front window again. A moment later, he adds: “Thank you.”

Gwen doesn’t say anything for a few beats. “I didn’t do it for you,” she replies eventually.

Percival shakes his head, and darts another quick glance at her. “I know, but I’m glad you did it anyway. I’ve been wanting to for a long time, but––”

“But it wasn’t the right time yet?” Gwen interrupts.

He nods. “Someone else would’ve taken his place.”

“Someone else will,” Gwen says confidently. “But Arthur’s a good man. He’s going to bring back magic, and the world will live again.”

She’s not sure why she’s telling Percival. He helped her, yes, but that’s all she knows about him.

When it comes down to it, though, there are only two kinds of people in this world: Those who’d help her, and those who wouldn’t. As far as Gwen’s concerned, Percival’s already more than earned her trust.

“I’ll bring us level with the big truck,” Gwen says. “I need to let Arthur know that Uther’s dead.”

Percival nods, and doesn’t question her decision even once.

Not knowing how the others are doing is slowly driving Gwaine up the metaphorical wall.

And he doesn’t even have time to worry about the others, except he _does_ worry, because if they’re not going to join them soon, Gwaine, Leon and Lancelot are going to be dead.

They’re surrounded from all sides by Agravaine’s men, and Agravaine himself. After getting out of Manchester, and heading over to the border bridge, the three of them soon ran into border patrols, which seem to consist of Agravaine’s entire force.

On the upside, those men are definitely not attacking Arthur and the Druids.

On the downside, Gwaine, Leon and Lance are fenced in by two dozen vehicles with even more men on them, and the only thing keeping them at bay is – wonder of wonders – Leon’s magic that kind of, instinctively, built a barrier between them to stop them from getting killed right away.

However, their attackers never stopped shooting or driving against the barrier and Gwaine can see in the rearview mirror that it’s taking all of Leon’s strength to keep the magic going.

All their attempts to break out of the ring of vehicles have been met with even stronger attacks, and so their choices are: stay where they are and wait for Leon to lose consciousness, followed by being killed, _or_ try to break free, probably have Leon pass out from the strain, and get killed.

Bloody great.

“Can we take out just Agravaine?” Gwaine asks into the relative quiet of the car. The only thing audible is Leon’s breathing that’s getting shallower by the minute. “Because I think that if he’s gone, his men might scatter and leave us alone. At the very least, they’ll head back to the border to regroup.”

“That’d be bad for Arthur and the others,” Lance points out.

“Keeping them here is bad for us,” Gwaine grumbles, but he sees Lance’s point. As much as he hates it, giving Arthur and Merlin the best chance at blazing through and capturing Camelot was sort of the point of the whole thing. And with well over fifty soldiers less to fight, it’s certainly going to be easier to achieve that.

Unfortunately it means that Gwaine has to come up with a better plan.

They’ve got a couple of canisters of fuel, so far so good. As long as they can lob them far enough, they could make for some nice bombs. They would have to turn them into molotov cocktails. That’s easy enough if they rip up their shirts to make fuses. They can probably ignite sparks with a sharp object against the metal shell of the car – or Leon might manage another one of those fireballs. He’ll have to drop the barrier anyway.

“Hey, Leon,” Gwaine asks. “Do you think you can drop the barrier and create some fire at the same time?”

Leon grunts but doesn’t otherwise reply. Gwaine turns in his seat to look at him directly. There’s sweat on his forehead and his face is looking pale. It’s not a great sight.

Gwaine looks to Lance. “Listen, I’ve got an idea but I need all of us to work together to make this work.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Since when haven’t we all been working together?”

“Ha, good point,” Gwaine laughs. “Anyway, I think I can build a big bomb, or several smaller ones, and that would at the very least create an opening for us to get away, possibly even get rid of the oily gits. We’ve got enough fuel to make ourselves some massive Molotov cocktails from those canisters.”

He looks at them expectantly. Leon looks about ready to pass out, which doesn’t say anything about what he thinks of the idea, but Gwaine’s guessing he’s sort of in favour of whatever stops him from dying.

Lance on the other hand looks doubtful.

“The blast would probably catch us too, and what good would that do?” he asks, raising a valid point that Gwaine hadn’t thought of.

He plops back down into his seat just as the car gets shaken from yet another car running into the barrier. Leon moans as if in pain, and Gwaine clenches his jaw.

Leon suffering in the backseat brings up too many memories of that night, and Gwaine might not be the most rational person on a good day, but damn it, the man he loves is miserable and he needs to bloody do something.

What good is it being declared the great trio of Magic, Courage, Strength if it’s not going to––

Wait a second.

Gwaine turns back around. “Lance, you’re Strength.”

Lance just blinks at him in confusion and Gwaine sighs in exasperation.

“Strength as in you give us strength? I mean, you’re fit and all, but I’m physically stronger than you are, so why would you be strength? Only, it’s not physical strength, it’s conviction and morality and bloody determination. You’re emotionally the strongest out of us three.” Gwaine’s grinning at the realisation, even though Lance is still looking confused.

“You can strengthen Leon and help him keep up the magic. He only needs to drop it for a moment so I can throw the bombs, and then you two raise the shield back up, as strong as you can make it, to keep us from going up in flames as well while we drive through the burning front line!” he concludes happily.

His declaration doesn’t result in a roaring round of cheers, unfortunately, and only more dubious looks from Lance.

“And you’re sure that’s going to work?” Lance asks after a long pause.

“Yes. Ninety percent. Maybe eighty. No less than seventy-five, though,” Gwaine says, nodding excitedly.

Lance huffs a half-hearted laugh, and shakes his head. The only sign that he’s seriously considering Gwaine’s plan is the fond smile still playing around his lips.

“Well, you are Courage,” Lance says at least. “Some people would confuse it with foolhardiness, so it’s an easy mistake to make.”

Gwaine grins. “You’re right about that. You two figure out how Leon can draw strength from you while I build us some bombs,” he says excitedly. Now that he’s got a plan, he’s immediately more chipper about the whole situation they’re in.

It’s not until he’s already getting ready to throw the bombs that he realises something, and he plops down into his seat and grins excitedly at Leon and Lance.

Leon’s already looking less pale, so Gwaine knows his theory is right.

He grins at the both of them.

“You know who I am?” he asks them, and when all he earns are blank stares and indulgent half-smiles, Gwaine’s grin becomes wider.

“I’m MacGyver!”

Their laughter gives him the final boost, and then the bombs land exactly where Gwaine needs them, blasting Agravaine and his company off the ground.

Morgana darts another glance over her shoulder. Arthur’s looking better by the minute, but his eyes are still closed, and Merlin hasn’t stopped the blood transfusion yet.

At least Uther’s already dead.

That he wasn’t killed by Arthur came as a surprise to everyone, and Morgana wonders how Arthur will feel when he wakes up and realises that the thing everyone told him he’d have to do has already been done by someone else.

And he won’t be the only one wondering what the prophecy actually means for him to do, now.

Morgana doesn’t dwell on it for the moment. First they have to get across the border before they can do anything else about it, and going by the line of cars she can see stationed in front of what used to be the bridge, and all along the canal, the Sarrum isn’t going to give it up easily.

Not even slightly bothered by that, Morgana hits the accelerator harder and the trucks speeds up what little it still can. As far as she’s concerned, the soldiers must sense that the great reign of terror is almost over and if they’re not smart enough to desert, then they don’t need to be treated carefully either. Anyone willingly standing in their way is part of the problem.

The nagging voice at the back of her head reminding her that many of them have been trained and brainwashed into supporting the system since birth is silenced by the noise of metal on metal as she runs the truck into the first vehicle, easily plowing it aside.

Where the bridge used to be, the Devils and whatever remained of Cenred’s men have filled up the canal with more rubble. They must’ve worked night and day to get this far, because they managed to create a passage wide and sturdy enough to support a bunch of vehicles, including the Sarrum’s heavily armoured truck.

Morgana’s not impressed, but silently relieved that their vehicle is going to get across without difficulty. She slows down their truck and waits for her opening.

It comes sooner than expected. Apparently, the Sarrum is even more arrogant than Uther. He climbs out of his truck and begins to walk towards them, seemingly entirely relaxed and sure of his victory.

He must’ve heard that they’re out of ammunition, and not heard that they have magic to defend themselves, because he swaggers towards the drivers side of the truck, an arrogant smile on his face.

Morgana smirks likewise, leans out of the window and raises her hand. She would’ve liked to draw it out more, let the Sarrum know exactly what’s going to happen to him, and then do it, slowly.

It’s nothing less than what he deserves.

But, there’s no time. It’s important for them to get to Camelot and seize the “throne”, as it were, before anyone else realises that the three major patriarchs of the South have disappeared.

A surge of magic shoots forward and wraps tightly around the Sarrum’s neck and lifts him off his feet.

“Mordred, I need you to look away and cover your ears,” Morgana says calmly. She looks to him to make sure he understands.

“I’m going to do something that you will never be able to forget if you watch it, and I don’t want you to witness any more death than you already have.”

Mordred swallows, and looks at her with a glimmer of fear in his eyes. It hurts Morgana to see him afraid of her, but the idea of losing him entirely if he were to see what she’s about to do scares her even more.

“Please, Mordred. I need to do something and I don’t want you to see or hear,” she says softly.

Slowly, Mordred obeys, and Morgana shoots Merlin a look. Merlin nods at her, then reaches for Mordred’s shoulder – the good one – and touches it lightly. Mordred relaxes in an instant, and Morgana knows he’s sleeping, and will do so until Merlin wakes him up again.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. Merlin doesn’t reply.

Morgana looks back at the man still dangling in mid air. She knows what the Sarrum has done, has witnessed many of his atrocities, whether she wanted to or not. That is the curse of the Sight. Some nights, when she didn’t wear her bracelet, or when its magic was too weak to shield her, Morgana watched while he committed horrors against magicals.

She’s watched as her kind has been tortured, more often than not by being burned, and always at the Sarrum’s command, if not always his own hand.

She’s watched as defenceless children have been cut apart or made to watch as their parents were burnt at the stake.

She’s watched as the Sarrum tormented one of the last dragons until it went mad and burnt itself to death in an effort to stop its suffering.

She’s watched so much death and pain and now he’s going to die an equally horrific death.

Her eyes glow gold, and the Sarrum screams as flames engulf him from head to toe. Morgana lets him float high above the ground for a good few minutes while he burns and screams in pain. Everyone still guarding the bridge and wall has seen what she’s capable of now, and she expects no more resistance.

Once she’s sure everyone understands, and once she’s satisfied that the Sarrum has understood why this is happening to him, she drops him into the dry canal, not caring whether he survives the fall or not. She hopes he did. A broken neck is too merciful a death for such a devil.

“Clear the path,” she shouts, and a soldier runs forward, hands raised high above his head. He climbs into the truck and slowly reverses it off the bridge to make way for Morgana and the others.

She looks to Mordred, who’s still sleeping peacefully in the passenger seat, and then back at Merlin, who’s nodding at her, grim satisfaction written into his expression. She returns his nod, then starts the truck and drives them into the south country, where she hasn’t been since she was a toddler.

He feels strong enough to sit up when they’re an hour away from Camelot.

It’s just about enough time to learn about everything that’s happened since he was stabbed.

Mordred, in tears, tells him that the attacker had caught Mordred’s wrist, and forced his arm to the point of dislocating his shoulder, until he could stab Arthur in the side – using not just Mordred’s dagger but his hand as well.

The boy’s visibly upset about it and Arthur does his best to reassure him that he doesn’t blame him in the slightest. After all, he’s just a boy, and he’s fought hard and well up until now.

Merlin’s the one who healed him, of course, and while Arthur doesn’t remember much about that, he does recall feeling warm and safe, and kind of as if he were floating on clouds just before he passed out. Maybe that was just the blood loss, or maybe it was Merlin’s influence. Either way, he can still feel Merlin’s touch on his cheek, and the tingling sensation of Merlin’s magic on his skin.

When Merlin admits to donating his blood to Arthur, Arthur’s first thought is that if Merlin’s blood runs through him now, Merlin’s magic is as well. The thought makes Arthur smile. It’s as if he’s got a piece of Merlin to keep now, and even though he’s by far not the only person to have received blood from Merlin, he’s the first one to have been given it freely.

However, he’s missed much more than his own near-death experience.

Morgana killed the Sarrum – burned him, from what Merlin whispered to him quietly, all the while checking that Mordred wouldn’t hear – and Gwaine and the others blew up Agravaine. Good riddance to both of them, as far as Arthur’s concerned. They had it coming and Arthur thinks that it’s more than a fitting punishment to be burnt to a crisp by a witch, and blown up by enslaved fighters, respectively.

Elyan got injured in the fight and only just managed to pull himself up onto the tank to hide in the lookout at the back. Kara found him there not long before Arthur woke up, it would seem. According to Merlin, he’s going to be fine, but he’ll need a new leg.

“‘s okay,” Arthur says, voice still a bit weak from the exhaustion his body’s feeling from being stabbed and losing a lot of blood. “I know a great engineer who makes limbs in his free time.”

The humour must’ve shone through because Merlin smiles even as he shakes his head.

They’ve lost a few Druids to the fight, all of which were in the rearguard. Out of the dozen who came with them, less than half survived. He never even knew their names, and that, more than anything, ties his stomach up in knots.

He’ll ask Morgana, once they’ve reached Camelot and achieved their goal. He wants to know the names of those who died defending them.

If all that weren’t enough, however, Merlin finally tells him that Gwen has been abducted by Devils. Arthur’s about ready to charge in, find her, and kill anyone standing in his way when Merlin puts a soothing hand on his shoulder. Warmth seeps into him anew and he calms down some. Arthur vaguely thinks that he doesn’t appreciate being manipulated by this, but then Merlin says that Gwen’s fine, that she’s driving Uther’s truck, that she shot Uther, and that she got help, of all people, from Uther’s personal bodyguard.

Arthur’s mind is reeling and he doesn’t even know where to begin working through all of it.

He’d assumed all this time that it would fall to him to kill his own father. Isn’t he supposed to be Merlin’s – Emrys’ – warrior? Isn’t he supposed to wield the deadly weapon that puts an end to all evil? Why did the prophecy call him warrior and specify what a great weapon he’d have if he doesn’t even get to play the vital role of murdering Uther so no one else has to?

It’s pathetic. He couldn’t even drive the bloody truck because some skinny, brainwashed kid bloody well stabbed him.

Some warrior he is. The prophecy’s been wrong this whole time. It can’t be about Arthur. What good is he if not as a fighter?

“Stop doubting yourself,” Merlin says quietly. He’s been sitting close to Arthur in the backseat this whole time, keeping a hand on his shoulder. They’ve unhooked the needles and tube a while ago after Arthur had woken up, but Merlin hadn’t moved away yet. First he stayed close to catch Arthur up, and then he’d just… stayed.

All in all, Arthur’s rather glad for it because the tingle of magic does a lot to keep him calm even if he does resent not being given the chance to get up and be angry about everything that’s gone wrong today.

“How do you know I’m doubting myself?” Arthur asks, trying to put a bit of scoff into his voice because he’s nothing if not stubborn. Admitting weakness to anyone, let alone Merlin, who – from all that Arthur’s heard and witnessed – has kept calm and done a whole lot more to defend and protect all of them, feels like too deep a stab at his dignity. And yes, he’s aware of the irony of being stabbed some more.

“You’re thinking that there was no point to the prophecy if you didn’t get to slay the evil emperor,” Merlin says at length, and it shouldn’t surprise Arthur how succinctly Merlin summarised Arthur’s inner turmoil after everything they’ve been through together in the last couple of days, but of course it does.

No one knows someone else this well, this intimately after just a few days. How can Arthur feel like he’s known Merlin all his life? How can it feel as if they’ve been friends – and close friends at that – forever?

He swallows, and shrugs half-heartedly.

“It’s true though, isn’t it? I was supposed to be your warrior, to fight by your side and return magic to the world,” Arthur says eventually.

“There’s more to that than cutting down dictators,” Merlin says, a smile shining through his voice. “The country’s going to need a new leader, Arthur, and that’s going to be you. I don’t know yet how we’ll return magic to the whole world, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to need your help to do it. Mother Gaia, or whatever you want to call the thing that gave me magical powers, must have some kind of plan for us or else the prophecy wouldn’t exist. You and I wouldn’t have this… _connection_ if it didn’t serve some purpose.”

“What if it’s the universe having a good laugh at all of us?” Arthur asks, not quite ready yet to give up his gloomy frame of mind.

Merlin chuckles softly. “Then we better start laughing, too. No point in living if you can’t have a little fun. Isn’t that why we went through all the trouble? So people would be free and could enjoy themselves?”

Enjoying themselves.

Arthur doesn’t remember the last time he’s truly enjoyed himself. He must have, as Elena had liked to point out, because where else would the laugh lines around his eyes come from.

Arthur thinks they’re probably from too much squinting suspiciously but when he’d offered Elena that theory, she’d actually punched his shoulder and told him to stop being so damn negative all the time.

He’d had to concede her point because if she was able to look at the brighter sides of life despite everything _she’s_ gone through and has seen happening, then he really ought to do the same.

Thinking about Elena does nothing to help him see the good in the world, though, because even though she’d been optimistic, all it had done was kill her.

Arthur closes his eyes against the sting of tears, and only opens them again when Merlin nudges him with his elbow.

“Look,” Merlin says, nodding towards the front window. Arthur gets up slowly, to avoid the threat of vertigo. As it is, he still gets just a tiny bit dizzy once he’s upright, but whether that’s from recovering from a near-death experience, the melancholic mood he’s in, or Merlin’s proximity, he’s not ready to examine.

Before them, Camelot rises, and for the first time, it doesn’t look like a grim prison. For the first time, Arthur can see the beauty in the round towers and bright sandstone walls. For the first time, the green surrounding it doesn’t fill him with resentment and anger at Uther for hogging all the resources.

For the first time it looks like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: Freya remembers part of what happened to her as a child (no graphic details), Arthur is stabbed, Uther hurls racist slurs at Gwen, Morgana burns the Sarrum alive using magic.


	5. Redemption

For the first couple of weeks, nothing makes much sense.

The little bit of government that existed in their world lies slain at the bottom of a canal, was torn to pieces by an impromptu bomb, and shot in the head by one of those it oppressed the most.

To say that chaos and anarchy ran rampant would be an understatement.

And yet, Arthur lost no time in reordering their world. He supposes it pays that his father made him learn how to read, and then never bothered to check what Arthur was reading. It turns out that when you study books about politics and history, you pick up a surprising amount of how a government should be run to ensure that its people are cared for and in return support you.

Arthur doesn’t think they’re ready for elections yet, but he wants to give the people as much of a voice in reordering their world as he can.

He picks representatives, both ones old enough to remember the time before the Purge, like Gwaine, Leon and Lancelot, and those too young to know how the world once was, like Gwen and Elyan. Together they figure out where to go from here and what steps to take.

A few months after the Revolution, most of the remaining supporters of Uther’s reign were caught and punished. Almost all of them were imprisoned, and would be exiled as soon as the oceans could be crossed again.

Many voices said that Arthur was too soft, and that deplorable men deserved to die. Many more replied that it’s the best sign that Arthur doesn’t stoop to Uther’s level of killing anyone who opposes him.

Arthur’s still not sure he’s done the right thing by letting them live, but Merlin reassures him that it’s a mark of Arthur’s good soul and worthiness.

Worthiness. Worthy of what? Leading a people that has been tortured and depleted because of the actions of one man? How can Arthur be the one to lead them anywhere, if his existence is the reason all of them had to suffer for so long?

On nights when his thoughts spiral down into that dark pit, Merlin never leaves his side, and gently wraps Arthur up in his magic. Maybe he’s begun to rely on Merlin’s presence a little bit too much, but Arthur’s begun to feel like some part of him is missing whenever Merlin isn’t near, or when he doesn’t know where Merlin is.

There are these moments between them, when Arthur thinks that Merlin understands him without any words needing to be said. Lately, whenever these moments happen, Arthur’s wondering what it would be like to simply lean forward, or pull Merlin closer, and kiss him.

Then he discards these thoughts as quickly as they’ve popped into his head because he can’t just do that. Merlin might not want him to, and Arthur never ever wants to do anything like that to anyone who doesn’t want him to.

The thought of forcing himself on Merlin makes him sick, and it’s always enough to drive the fantasy of tasting Merlin’s lips out of his mind.

Merlin’s magic remains wrapped around him, though, sometimes more, sometimes less. Arthur knows, intellectually, that that’s because Merlin’s given him his blood, and that a part of Merlin’s magic is inside him now, and that Arthur could use it if he wanted to.

Maybe one day he’ll want to, but for the moment he’s content to just bask in its warmth whenever he needs it.

It doesn’t magically (ha!) make the dark thoughts disappear, but it lightens the burden until Arthur can raise his head and see reason again.

It’s not his fault that his mother died. These things happen sometimes, and they’re always terrible and sad, but they’re never the reason for someone to do what Uther did.

Arthur has learned the truth of that in the last few months. He thought that the people would reject him as leader. Just because he’s capable and willing to do it doesn’t mean he should. But no one blamed him for what Uther had done, even though everyone knows that he’s Uther’s son.

The people welcomed him, called for him to be their leader, and Arthur felt honour bound to accept despite his own doubts.

When they’re ready, he promises himself, they’ll have a choice again.

For Morgana, riding into Camelot was like a religious experience. Never in the world has she seen so much green in one place.

After their arrival, she’s spent days just walking around the grounds, and laying down in thick, green grass, beneath trees that carry leaves.

More often than not she cries over the souls they’ve lost, and the decades that were wasted. She cries over the injustice of it all, and the path their world was pushed off and that it’ll never find again. The course of their history has forever been altered, and the future is so unpredictable, that Morgana has taken to wearing her bracelet all hours of the day since visions of what might happen have started coming even during her waking hours.

That’s why she didn’t see them coming.

One day, while she’s napping on the grass, a dark shadow falls on her. She wakes only moments later from the sudden chill. The only thing that stops her from crying out is the fact that she’s too shocked to make a sound.

Before her sits a dragon as large as a house. Its scales are rust coloured and its eyes big and intelligent. When it opens its snout, Morgana is prepared for everything – except for it to speak to her kindly.

“Young witch,” it says, and bows its head. “I’ve waited a long time to speak to you.”

The dragon waits patiently for her to find her voice and in the ensuing conversation – accompanied by insecure stutters on Morgana’s side, and indulgence on the dragon’s – Morgana learns that the dragons are coming back to Albion and that they wish her to continue the tradition of the Dragonlords.

When she points out that they might want to talk to a man if they want a Lord, the dragon chuckles. “We’ve seen what men have done, it is time for a new era. We’ll teach you our language and our ways, and you’ll be the first Dragonlady of the new world.”

Morgana is speechless (again) for all of five seconds, and then she smirks knowingly. She, too, has seen what men did, and she’s pleased that the Dragons would choose a woman to rebirth what men destroyed.

Needless to say that she accepts their offer.

Months later, she takes Mordred for a ride on Kilgharrah’s back to visit Morgause and the Druids on the Isle of Skye to retrieve an egg that Kilgharrah promises lies hidden in a cave on the island. It’s one of the very last dragon eggs of the world, and it needs Morgana to hatch and protect it.

The whole way there, Morgana smiles to herself. She already knows what she’s going to call this new dragon, and when she tells Kilgharrah shortly before they hatch the egg, he’s pleased with her choice.

“Aithusa,” Morgana calls the young fledgling. It cries out in response, and Morgana smiles when warmth suffuses her whole body.

In the end, Mordred decides to stay on the island – at least for now. Going to Camelot with Emrys and Arthur has been exciting and he wants to see more of what they can do together, but in the end there’s too much noise there, too many people.

Once he’s back on Skye – to where he rode on the back of _a dragon_ – he realises how much he’s missed the quiet.

He can hear nature here. More so now that it’s actually recuperating and growing again. It’s beautiful and it’s what he knows and where he has a role.

It’s not long after his return to the island that he asks Morgause to enter training for priesthood. She considers it for a long time because traditionally, only women were allowed to be priestesses of the Old Religion.

Mordred has no idea how Morgause makes that decision, whether she’s conferred with Mother Gaia in some way, or sought someone else’s council, but after several weeks, she agrees.

“It’s not an easy life,” she says when she sits him down to explain the specifics of his apprenticeship and life as a priest.

“It requires hard work, both physically and mentally to learn all the magic that you need to know to protect this island and its secrets. You’ll learn things you’d rather wish you didn’t know but one can’t protect what is good and just without knowing what it is that it needs protection from. You have to become aware that your powers can as much be a force for good as they can be for evil – and it will be up to you to walk the right path.”

He nods, even though he doesn’t quite understand what she means. Their magic is good, isn’t it? It’s earth’s magic, and nature is good and true. How could that be evil?

Morgause must’ve seen the question in his eyes because she smiles gently and cups his cheek.

“Even nature is both gentle and violent. The delicate petals of a flower are as much part of this world as rough earthquakes and thundering storms. Likewise magic has the ability to create and to destroy.”

To emphasise her words she lets a flower wither, and another bloom right next to it.

“This is what you must learn, and what you will have to decide every day for the rest of your life how to use. It will be within your capacity to give life, and to take it, and there may very well be an occasion when you are forced to do the latter.”

Her eyes grow sad for a moment, and she doesn’t take them off the flowers she’s killed. Then, as if shaking herself out of whatever memory she’s trapped in, Morgause’s expression lightens, and she looks back up at Mordred.

“And then of course there’s the celibacy,” she says, and when Mordred doesn’t react beyond nodding his understanding, she frowns in confusion.

“I didn’t think a fourteen year old boy would take that news so easily,” she admits, and Mordred shrugs. He might be only fourteen, but he knows what sex is, and that he has no interest in it.

“It won’t be a problem,” he says confidently.

Morgause smiles and ruffles his hair. “We’ll see about that. You may always revoke the apprenticeship should you one day realise that you can’t live by the rules of our order.”

Mordred frowns but doesn’t shake off her hand. It won’t do to insult the High Priestess. However, he is sure that he won’t suddenly get interested. He doesn’t look at people and feel aroused, nor does the idea of sharing his body with anyone like that excite him. In fact, it makes him uncomfortable to just think about touching someone else the way people touch when they have sex.

“I want to obey the rules,” he says, because he knows Morgause won’t believe him yet if he explains any of this, but he hopes that over time he can prove it to her.

“That’s the first step,” Morgause says, still smiling. “The apprenticeship lasts several years before you’ll be anointed. Plenty of time for you to see how you like it.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he says honestly. “When can we start?”

Morgause folds her hands in her laps and looks at him with amusement. He realises he’s acting like an overeager child but Mordred doesn’t care. He wants to start right now.

“At the next new moon,” she says finally.

“That’s still weeks away!” Mordred whines. They only just passed the new moon two nights ago.

Morgause laughs softly. “Patience, my dear Mordred, is a virtue. And you’ll need it for this role.”

He blushes, but then nods. He supposes he can start practising that since it’s the thing that’s really going to give him trouble.

The place they find is exactly what she wanted. It’s a quiet valley, the mountains shielding them on one side, a forest on the other, with a lake stretching between the two. The cottage they find tucked away near the edge of the forest on the lake’s shore is dusty and falling apart from years of disuse but still holding up on its sturdy stone walls.

Freya wonders why no one’s been using the place to live for so long, but maybe no one except the Druids has lived on this island since the Purge.

It doesn’t matter to her. She and Sophia take their time with rebuilding it to the best of their powers, and the Druids help with the rest.

When Sophia’s pregnancy gets to the point where she has to stop exerting herself, Freya finishes most of the work by herself. It’s slow going, but neither of them minds.

Freya’s not sure why Sophia’s carrying the baby to term. Sophia doesn’t make it a secret that she wants nothing to do with this baby. Freya’s heard her raging about it when Sophia thinks she’s alone.

Sophia hates the child. Hates the man who gave it to her, hates the circumstances during which it was conceived, and hates that she has to carry it to term.

She’s never told Freya why she has to give birth to it, but she’s promised that she’ll give it away as soon as she’s able.

Raising a baby wouldn’t be the worst thing, Freya muses, but they’re both still young. Morgause has said that they’re still children themselves and shouldn’t have to carry the burden of raising a baby.

Freya’s not sure she sees it the same way, but she acknowledges that before she can raise another person, she needs to overcome her own past and fears.

They stay for a few weeks at the camp. Freya misses their cottage, even though the roof is still not fixed, and the fireplace not fully rebuilt yet. Good thing it’s still warm outside.

The climate has begun to change slowly on the island. It had become cooler during the day, and even colder at night.

The one time it rained, both of them had run out to feel the water on their skin. The rain was warm, and had a strange scent that neither of them could describe. It had gone on the whole night, and by the next day, the lake had filled up and the sun was glistening on its shiny surface.

Freya smiles at the memory of it, and misses their home more fiercely.

At the camp, Sophia found out that only their cottage has been blessed by rain, and she’d glared at the baby for a whole day as if the little thing had anything to do with it. Freya sometimes doesn’t understand her at all.

And then, one day, the baby is gone. When Freya asks who’s taken it, Sophia refuses to answer, but promises her that it’s well taken care of and will live a happy life without ever knowing where it came from and under what circumstances it was born.

When she asks if any of the women in the camp kept it, Sophia shakes her head, and asks her to stop asking, so Freya does. It’s obvious that Sophia doesn’t want to talk about it yet, and while Freya hates when Sophia keeps secrets – she keeps so many things bottled up inside – she respects her privacy.

Maybe, one day, she’ll tell her more, and until then, she and Freya can finish rebuilding their home, and be happy.

After all, a home where she can feel safe and loved is all Freya ever wanted.

It becomes clear after just a couple of weeks that Camelot – and the rest of the country, once they realise Uther’s gone – need some kind of law enforcement.

You could argue that Uther and his crowd were the only real criminals, and you’d be right. That doesn’t change the fact that now, with next to no leadership, people figured that everything was fair game.

And by people, Lancelot means faithful followers of Uther’s who think they need to avenge him, or at least continue his “good work”.

It all makes Lance rather sick, to know that people would willingly behave like that, commit crimes of that caliber, just because they could, and not only because they were forced into it.

Then again, they’d all known that there were a lot of Devils who were either brought up to think that this is the only way to live, or who converted readily enough as soon as they got the chance.

Arthur’s doing his best, of course. He’s taken the country into hand, as much as he can, trying to build a proper government and provide structure, but it’s going to take time, and patience, and law enforcement.

Which is why Lance, Leon and Gwaine volunteered to become coppers – or whatever you want to call them now, given that the Met or anything like it hasn’t existed in well over twenty years.

Gwaine jokingly called them knights, once, and Merlin’s eyes had lit up with delight, and so it kind of stuck.

So now they were the Knights of Camelot, and they were busy keeping the order in the citadel and surrounding town, not to mention train other ex-Devils to do the same.

Needless to say, it took them a while, but after a couple of months, just as Arthur was starting to settle into things, and a good while after the dragons had returned, Lance, Leon and Gwaine decided that they’d trained up a decent bunch of knights whom they trusted to do the job and do it well, and so they packed their things (still not that many…) into the car (still the rusty old thing…) and drove up back to Manchester.

“Other places need our help too,” Leon had argued one night, and Lance had silently agreed. “Look what we’ve achieved here. We can do the same for other places.”

“Other places might not want our help as much as Arthur did,” Gwaine had pointed out, and yes, okay, Lance had to concede that that might be a problem.

“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” Leon had replied. “It’s going to take Arthur some more time to figure everything out, but there’s so much work to be done, I don’t think he can do it all by himself. We’re supposed to help him achieve his destiny, aren’t we?”

Lance smiles into Leon’s shoulder and kisses it gently. Ever since Leon learned about their roles as Magic, Courage, and Strength, and realised he’s got magic, he’s been even more determined to make them do the right thing.

People always think Lance is their moral compass, the one who keeps them on the right track, but it’s always been Leon, as far as Lance is concerned. His own mantra is, more often than not, What Would Leon Do.

(He’d told Gwaine this once, and then Gwaine had – God knows how or where – found one of these W.W.J.D bracelets and given it to Lance. Except, Gwaine had used a pen – seriously, where? – to replace the J with an L. Lance still has it, although he never wears it around his wrist, mostly so Leon wouldn’t find out.)

“You’re right,” Lance says, because Leon is. “We should go someplace else and see how we can help people there.”

Leon’s arm had tightened around Lance, and Gwaine had stopped protesting, which meant he was agreeing.

The next day they’d gone and talked to Arthur and Merlin about it, and both had agreed enthusiastically.

Now, a week later, they’re just arriving in Manchester. The city’s reputation hasn’t improved any since they’d last been here. If anything, it got worse after Cenred’s death.

It takes them the rest of that first day to find a place where they can – more or less safely – stay for a while, and they fall asleep all tangled up in each other.

Manchester doesn’t seem to go to sleep, not like Camelot does, and Lance misses the quiet of the citadel at night, but listening to the city around them has its own lure.

It’s mostly noise – people screaming at each other, or crying, and it takes a considerable amount of restraint for all three of them not to just go out and start law enforcement this very second.

They need time to assess the situation first, and then they need a proper plan, and maybe some help.

But Lance is optimistic that they’ll be able to do it. And if they can make it here, they can replicate it anywhere in the country.

There are other cities. Not many, but a few.

London’s not even close to what it used to be, but last Lance heard there’s a micro society living between the ruins of the old capital. Someone will have to go and talk to them, see if they need any help.

Oxford’s kaputt and done with, as far as Lance knows, but Cardiff definitely could use some help going by the intel they gained through a scouting mission while still under Uther’s thumb.

There’s still work to be done, even if the big evil has been vanquished, and Lance for his part is more than happy to do some of it.

After all, if they’re lucky, they’ll all live long enough to see the return of their country to something resembling what the three of them still remember from pimply teenage years.

Alice is barely six months old when Vivian decides to leave the Druids. They’ve done everything they can for her, and she’s incredibly grateful for all their help, but it’s time for her to move on and find something to do.

Morgana has told them about how well Camelot is doing, all things considered, but that other places still need help with leadership.

“The trio is sort of policing Manchester,” she’d said, and Vivian was given to understand that the trio meant the three men who’d arrived at the camp not long after them, and who’d left to fight with Arthur and Merlin as well.

“It’s their task,” Morgana had explained. “They’re to help Arthur with restoring order in the country, and I suppose they took that literally.”

She’d shrugged, and then gone off to talk to Morgause.

Vivian, though, had begun planning.

By Alice’s eighth month, Vivian’s been in Manchester for four weeks.

Gwaine, Leon and Lance have done a great job already, but there’s still much to do. While the city is less of a crime pit nowadays, it’s nowhere near what Vivian’s used to from her father’s piece of land.

The memory twinges, as it always does when she thinks about her father and how she came to be Uther’s wife. It’s been so long now, and Vivian had barely been thirteen years old when Uther defeated her father and claimed her as his prize.

Still, Vivian remembers what it was like to grow up as the daughter of a leader. It’s how she was able to recognise the quality in Arthur, and why she knew right away that Uther wasn’t a good one – in every sense of the word “good”.

And, she thinks, she definitely can see herself in a similar role, which is why she’s needed in Manchester.

Four weeks in, and with her help – her guidance – Gwaine, Leon and Lance have made more progress with recruiting Knights to their cause, and keeping the peace in the city.

Arthur has been in touch via letters, and they’ve agreed to meet soon so they could talk government structures and strategy together more comfortably.

Alice – the old one, at the citadel – had explained to them the concept of mayors. A person who was the leader of a city, responsible for the people’s wellbeing and protection. Someone who was the go-between between citizens and the higher institution.

Well, Vivian thinks, Arthur might be their new… whatever it is he is. President, or chancellor, or maybe even king. But Vivian would be the mayor of Manchester for the time being and make sure that the people here were looked after and protected, and that Arthur knew what the people outside of Camelot needed from him – and vice versa.

Cradling her daughter in her arms, Vivian looks out of her window in the city’s stronghold. The sun’s going down and she can spot two knights in training doing their rounds in the street, making sure it’s another quiet night in Manchester.

Alice snuffles, yawns, and then promptly falls asleep before Vivian can place her in her crib.

 _Yes,_ she thinks. _This is where I’ll be useful._

With the return of the dragons to their country, Merlin finally receives his answer as to how he’s supposed to restore magic to the world.

Not right away, of course, because that would’ve been too easy

Damn dragons. Never give a straight answer.

He knows he could, theoretically, go around and touch every single person, and shed tears or blood in every part of the world – but that’s neither effective nor realistic.

Unfortunately, he’s also got no idea how else to do it. No one gave him a handbook on how to save the world. So far, everything he’s done, he’s done by instinct, and it’s served him well. However, his instinct is telling him naught about how to revive an entire planet.

He has tried just sticking his hand into the ground and pushing his magic inside, but from what he could tell, the radius of effectiveness didn’t change from what it is when he drops some blood onto the ground.

At least this way he won’t go anaemic if he really has to touch every hectare of planet surface.

The dragons, on the other hand, seem to have memorised the handbook – or possibly they invented it – and then decide to reveal its contents in riddles and prophecies.

Great. Just what Merlin needs. As if this entire situation weren’t stressful and confusing enough already, a bunch of dragons decide to be cryptic about what it is he’s actually supposed to do.

Especially the leader, Kilgharrah, is fond of telling Merlin that he and his other half will have to become one whole. Apparently, Merlin’s but one side of a coin. Whenever he asks to clarify whether Arthur is the other, the dragon starts chuckling and flies off.

As he said, damn dragons. Most frustrating bunch, they are.

Thank God for Morgana and her skill to cut through the mysterious babbling. “It’s easy,” Morgana says, grinning wickedly. Merlin wondered at first why he didn’t think to ask her right away since she’s the Dragonlady in training, but the look on her face right now pretty much answers that question. It alone tells Merlin that he won’t like whatever she’s about to tell him.

“All you have to do is complete a ritual in a sacred place,” Morgana says.

 _Oh_ , Merlin thinks.

“Oh,” he says out loud, then frowns, because Morgana is still smirking. “What kind of ritual?” he asks warily. For all he knows he has to do some ridiculous dance, maybe get naked and stand on his head. He hates standing on his head. He’s had enough of his blood rushing to his brain during his time as an unwilling blood donor, thanks very much.

Morgana’s smirk becomes eviler, which means she’s keen on telling him and then mocking him for it. Just perfect. The ritual probably involves body paint in embarrassing places.

“Nothing too fancy,” she says, feigning flippancy. “Speak some magic words, draw some runes on the ground and yourself, shed some blood and semen, preferably with a willing partner. You know, the usual blood and sex magic shtick.”

Merlin––

Merlin gapes. Because Morgana just said all that with a bored look at her nails, while Merlin can feel his ears burning hot with embarrassment. He just knew he wouldn’t like what she had to say.

“What?” he croaks at last.

Morgana’s expression softens by a degree and she explains somewhat more gently: “What Mother Gaia needs is, basically, fertility. A jump start, so to speak. She gets that by a sacrifice but it has to be given willingly, and it needs to be from the right person and for the right reasons. It also needs to be… Well, it has to involve _substances_ that are traditionally associated with life. Thus, blood and semen.”

“Right,” Merlin says, swallowing thickly. “And it should ideally be given by two people.”

“Or more, but I don’t think you’re _up_ for an orgy – no pun intended.”

From looking at her face, Merlin is sure that the pun was most definitely intended.

She is right, though. Merlin hasn’t had time to think about sex… well, ever, let alone sex with more than one other person.

As it stands, there’s only one person that comes to mind and Merlin doesn’t even know if that person wants to have sex with him in return!

“So, uh, does it have to be a woman?” he asks tentatively, and then a thought strikes him and his eyes widen in shock. “It doesn’t have to be you, does it?” he shrieks.

Morgana looks offended for just a moment, then she starts laughing.

Merlin has absolutely no idea if that’s a yes or a no, and so he waits impatiently for her to calm down.

“Well?” he asks once she’s stopped cackling. “Does it?”

Morgana shakes her head, looking as if she’s fighting not to burst into giggles again. “It can be whoever you choose, no matter the gender. They just have to be willing.”

He exhales with relief. That’s one problem off his plate, then. Only leaves a dozen others.

“I guess I start by learning the spell and runes,” he says at length. There’s time enough to agonise about asking––

Well. As he said, there’s time enough.

Once Elyan’s stump has healed enough for him to get a prosthetic, Arthur brings the man to him who’s made his arm.

All Elyan knows about him prior to their first meeting, is that he’s been locked away in the dungeon’s of Camelot until recently, because he’d started helping everyone who came to him, thus wasting resources and time on people that Uther didn’t approve of.

Unfortunately for Uther, there’s also been no better weapon’s smith around for ages, and so he didn’t dare kill him. He just forced him to work under the castle without seeing anyone except his guards or Uther himself.

Which is why it comes as a bit of a shock when the man turns out to be his and Gwen’s father.

There are a lot of tears during that first meeting – even more once Gwen joins them – and no one talks about Elyan’s missing leg or the prosthetic at all until a few days later, once the three of them have shared their stories with each other and cried more over them.

What Arthur had heard about Tom’s imprisonment was largely true. He’d been locked up for making weapons and prosthetics for everyone who came to him, not just Uther’s Devils or allies. But his expertise in engineering and smithery was too high to have him killed.

By the time Arthur was publicly disowned and maimed, Tom had already lived under the castle for a few weeks, and been at Camelot for almost a year. How Arthur had found him, Tom doesn’t know, and Arthur never said, but Tom suspected that either his guards had talked, or one of the few people inside the castle who knew where he was and what he could do tipped Arthur off.

Either way, to this day, Arthur’s arm remained his masterpiece.

“Well, until I’m done with your leg,” he amends a moment later, smiling at Elyan.

“Can you teach me?” Elyan asks impulsively. The things his father can make, they’re amazing, and they help people.

Not the weapons, so much, but the prosthetic limbs. And maybe the weapons too, on occasion. Arthur’s arm was well made, and came in handy (no pun intended) a few times, it would seem. Elyan supposes they’ll have to set up some kind of rule about who they’d make weapons for. The Knights, probably, maybe some others.

He realises he’s already imagining a shining future in a smithy with his dad before Tom’s even said yes to his request.

Tom chuckles, and squeezes Elyan’s thigh. “Of course I can. And I will, once you can stand up again.”

If Elyan ever needed any incentive to start getting back on his feet, this would be it.

As far as jobs go, farming is exactly what he would’ve liked to do if anyone had ever given him a choice about it.

There’s just something about digging in warm, wet soil, sowing, weeding, harvesting… it’s almost like meditation, even when it’s hard work.

It’s not like hard work scares Percy. He’s strong enough to do all kinds of things, and yes, he had been tempted to put it to good use and become a Knight when Gwaine had first asked him, but after everything, Percy doesn’t think he has it in him to enforce anything – even if it’s to keep their hard-earned peace.

When no one had protested, it had honestly surprised him, and he’d almost changed his mind out of fear they’d shame him for his cowardice later. Gwen was the one who convinced him that no one thought less of him for his choice, and that everyone who knew what his role in the old regime was would understand why he’d give up that life as much as he could.

“You were one of the people who saw the worst bits of what was going on,” she’d said, cupping his cheek. She’s had to stand on her toes to reach comfortably, but she hadn’t looked as if she’d minded. “I think it’s wonderful that you want to become a farmer. We need strong men like you to do the hard work.”

Percy had blushed, but thanked her and then gone to find someone who could explain to him how he could get started on the whole thing.

Arthur had given him a piece of land, and Merlin had gone with him to fertilise it with magic and replenish the water supply. It still amazes Percy that this is at all possible, and that he’s got the chance to see it happening.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead and looks out over his field. He’s planted wheat, and some vegetables, enough to provide for a few people. They’re all learning how to make bread and what else to do with vegetables other than roast them over the fire. It’s a journey, and he finds he’s rather enjoying it.

The sun’s high in the sky, but as the months pass, and as Merlin rejuvenates more and more land around Camelot, it blazes less harshly now, and sets earlier with every week. Maybe, before long, they’ll have winter. From what Percy’s heard, it’s cold and going to make them wish for summer again, but if anyone asked him, he’d tell them that he’s looking forward to more changes.

As far as jobs go, becoming Arthur’s right hand and advisor is one of the best roles Gwen could’ve wished for.

Arthur had offered her the leadership of their people – of course he had – but Gwen knew that, at least in the beginning, the people would want Arthur in that position. As much as she longs for change, she understands that after such a long time and with a generation full of people who never knew anything but Uther’s reign of terror – herself included – it’s going to take some time to adjust to something else.

Dramatic changes can be good, but this peace is fragile at best. There are still some of Uther’s followers out there, and there’s no guarantee no other warlord is going to try to unseat Arthur at some point. Putting Gwen on top of the pyramid – or castle, as it were – would likely incite more ire and open revolution than if they replace a tyrannical dictator with his much more beloved son.

At least Arthur had insisted on telling the story the way it happened: That it had been Gwen who’d ultimately killed Uther, that it was through the effort of many that any of this had been possible, that only with the help of magic they managed to do it at all and get this far. And that it would need all these things to go on into the future.

From the crowd’s reaction, Gwen could tell that they didn’t particularly believe that she’d killed Uther, that she’d even be capable of it.

It doesn’t matter to her. She knows the truth, and so do all the people who matter. Arthur never claims to have done it, and all her other friends don’t either. Over time, people will have to believe the truth.

Until then, Gwen will do what she can to help Arthur rebuild. They make an excellent team, not just in a physical fight, but as leaders of the country as well. Maybe it had taken Arthur a couple of months to realise that he didn’t have to do it all by himself, and that Merlin, magical as he was, didn’t actually know anything about leading a country. Then again, none of them had any practical experience with that particular job, but it soon became clear that some of them had more of a knack for it than others.

As it stands, Merlin’s busy bringing back magic everywhere around Camelot within a reasonable travel distance. He’s got a map and is working through the grid diligently every day. There are days when he doesn’t ride out to do his thing, and on those days he holes up somewhere and studies books or talks to the dragons.

All she could ever get out of him was that it had something to do with bringing back magic on a larger scale, but when she’d asked about specifics, he’d gone red and started babbling, and then almost tripped over his feet in his haste to get away.

She supposes she’ll find out when – or if – it’s relevant for her to know.

Gwen stretches comfortably and props herself up on an elbow. The sun’s not quite up yet, but it’s light enough in her – their – room to see.

Percy’s going to wake up any moment now. He’s used to waking with sunrise from his time as bodyguard, and it serves him well now that he’s a farmer.

She smiles, and caresses his cheek while he sleeps. He turns his face towards her and sighs, but doesn’t wake yet.

Everyone thinks he’s so intimidating and scary, and Gwen can see why. He’s tall, and bulky, and of course many recognise him as Uther’s bodyguard, but if any of them bothered to really look at him, they’d realise that he’s not violent – never wanted to be – and instead one of the most caring and gentle men she’s ever met.

She’s certainly noticed, once she let herself look, and she hasn’t regretted it yet.

Gwen leans down to kiss his forehead, and then carefully climbs out of bed. They occupy a room in one of the castle’s towers, and Gwen wants to watch the sunrise from the window.

As the first rays appear over the horizon, strong arms wrap around her shoulders, and she smiles to herself. Not too long ago, this gesture would’ve made her tense, but she trusts Percy completely; knows that he’d let her go in an instant if she so much as hinted at discomfort. So she relaxes into his embrace, and leans back against him.

Together they watch the sun rise the rest of the way.

As it turns out, it’s not just learning the spell and the runes, and asking someone to be his willing participant. No, what it _also_ depends on is the right timing. The moon needs to be in a specific position relative to the stars and the sun, and so on.

On the upside, it means that it’s almost a year after their conquest of Camelot that all these things are going to line up in exactly the right way, and Merlin’s already had a good few months to figure out the technical aspect of it, so he’s confident that he can do the spell.

He’s practiced drawing the runes on himself a couple of times (because the last thing he wants is to have to ask someone else to do it), and he doesn’t even have to think about the words to the spell anymore. He’s cast it well over a hundred times already, working on his pronunciation with Finna’s help.

The Druid woman had come down from the Isle to see Camelot for herself when Morgana returned, and Merlin was glad for the arrival of a magic user who actually knew more about it and who wouldn’t speak in bloody riddles all the time, or smirk knowingly.

Talking to Finna about the finer aspects of the ritual was mortifying at first, but eventually Merlin realised that Finna saw nothing shameful in what Merlin would need to do, and she encouraged him to pick a partner soon.

Merlin… didn’t ask Arthur right away. They were both still busy with other things, and Arthur was still growing into his role as leader. There were so many things to consider, and then Vivian took Manchester under her wing, and Gwaine and his boyfriends went somewhere else to train up even more Knights, and Arthur received reports from one city or another, all of them slowly rebuilding and restructuring, on a daily basis, and he was just always so busy.

Between trying to run the country – Arthur – and trying to figure out the scope of magical powers – Merlin – there just wasn’t that much time for them to get to know each other more.

Nevertheless, Merlin felt a bond between them. The few times a week they did manage to spend some time together, usually over supper or when their tasks and duties collided, it always felt as if they’d known each other all their life – maybe even longer.

And then Kilgharrah informed him that the time for the ritual would be in three weeks, and Merlin was running out of time.

The first week is spent fretting wildly. What if Arthur says no? What if Arthur says _yes?_  What if Arthur laughs in his face?

What if Arthur feels it too but doesn’t want to have sex with Merlin?

Merlin’s not deaf or blind, and despite what certain people might say, he’s definitely capable of putting two and two together. So, yes, he _has_ noticed that Arthur doesn’t really look at other people with that kind of interest. Merlin’s asked Gwen about it once, as subtly as he knew how – which probably wasn’t all that subtle – and she pretty much confirmed it, too.

Which means there’s the slight chance that Arthur will say “no”, not because he doesn’t like Merlin, but because he’s got no interest in _sex_. In that case, Merlin would have to figure out how to ask if Arthur would be willing to, er, sacrifice some of his semen anyway, only separately.

Just thinking about it in these technical terms makes Merlin blush with embarrassment, but thinking about it in less than technical terms would be even worse for different reasons.

Of course, depending on Arthur’s answer, Merlin would have to find out if that’s even a viable option. Either way, he’s not going to ask anyone else. It’s either going to be Arthur, or no one but himself.

If Merlin didn’t feel like he owed Mother Gaia his best attempt at doing this, he wouldn’t even consider asking Arthur and just do it by himself.

But … the earth needed more magic. The area around Camelot was coming along well after Merlin spent a couple of months going around and rejuvenating as much as he could one square on the map after the other. And unless he wants to travel the whole country, and then the whole world, and do the same thing until he either died from exhaustion, or finished at an old age, he’d really much rather try the dragon’s method.

In the middle of the second week, Merlin asks Arthur to have supper with him. They haven’t got further than halfway through their meal before Merlin blurts the whole thing out.

“There’s a ritual to return magic to the rest of the world but it involves sex magic, and ideally I’d have at least one partner for it.”

The following silence is deafening, and Merlin dares to look up from his plate after Arthur hasn’t reacted in at least half a minute.

Arthur’s staring at him, fork hovering just in front of his mouth, lips parted – whether to take the bite or in shock, Merlin can’t tell – eyes wide and so, so blue.

Merlin swallows thickly, clears his throat, and looks back down at his plate.

“I don’t know if you’re at all interested,” he forges ahead, his ears flaming red, he knows. “But there’s no one else I’d want to do this with and I thought that maybe you’d… er. Maybe you like me too? I think you do, but I don’t want to presume. If you see me as just a friend, that’s fine, really. I want your friendship more than I want the other things, so if that’s all _you_ want, that’s fine.”

Merlin’s hands are flat on the table next to his plate to keep them from fiddling nervously, or accidentally stabbing himself – or Arthur – with the cutlery. When Arthur’s big hand covers his, Merlin jumps and almost pulls it away, but stops himself just in time. There’s always a pleasant tingling sensation when they touch, even a year later, but it’s nowadays nothing more than a light electric pulse.

Except now it’s much more than that, and Merlin’s skin breaks out in goosebumps.

When Merlin finally raises his face to look at Arthur, he finds Arthur smiling at him, which only sets off a completely new feeling in his gut. It’s less of a tingle and more… of a flutter? It’s not unpleasant, but it wears on his concentration a little bit.

He swallows again. “So, uh, you don’t have to decide right now,” he says at length. “There’s about a fortnight left before the ritual has to be completed. If you just want to, uhm, donate your–– “

Merlin breaks off again. This is so bloody embarrassing and he wishes for a short second that someone would club him over the head and free him from this misery.

Then Arthur starts to chuckle softly, and while Merlin watches with wide eyes, Arthur breaks into a proper laugh – one that Merlin can’t help but join after just a moment.

Somewhere in there, they lace their fingers together, and then, after they’ve calmed down again, Arthur squeezes Merlin’s hand.

“I’d be honoured to help with the ritual, and to be with you,” he says, sounding entirely too formal for someone who’s just agreed to have sex with someone else. Merlin’s not too ashamed to admit to himself that it’s a bit of a turn on.

“Just for the ritual?” Merlin blurts out because he needs to know. He needs to know if this is only going to happen once, or if they’re talking about more here.

“No, Merlin,” Arthur says, affecting an air of patience that Merlin knows is an act to hide Arthur’s genuine amusement and fondness. “I don’t just want to have sex with you for some ritual magic. I’d rather have a relationship with you, even if it’s not starting out quite the way I’d imagined.”

The smile on Arthur’s face could give Morgana’s smirks a run for their money with regards to cheekiness.

“So,” Merlin says finally. “You have? Imagined it, I mean? Us together?”

Arthur stands up, releasing Merlin’s hand in the process, and walks around the table, only so he can put a hand on the back of Merlin’s chair and push it away from the table. He leans down into Merlin’s space, never losing that smile.

“I have,” Arthur says. “It involved a lot of stammering on your part. I’m glad I got that part right.”

Merlin wants to protest, but all that happens is that his face goes warm and his eyes drop to Arthur’s lips.

“I also imagined that it would be me who broaches the subject of taking things further. I can’t say I’m disappointed that it’s happening now, though, no matter the circumstances.”

He’s incredibly close to Merlin now, and Merlin’s had to stop looking at his mouth or else he’d go cross-eyed. This close, Merlin can see the freckles on Arthur’s nose and cheeks and he suppresses the urge to reach out and trace them.

“What I definitely thought about,” Arthur says, voice low and quiet now, his breath ghosting over Merlin’s skin, “is kissing you.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Merlin asks.

Arthur licks his lips, and leans in some more. “Your permission.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leans in the rest of the way, closes his eyes, and presses his lips against Arthur’s.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he thinks: _This is my first kiss_ , but then Arthur kisses him back, gentle pressure against Merlin’s mouth, and Merlin’s mind is preoccupied with wondering if there’s something else he ought to do with his mouth or his limbs. Arthur solves that problem by putting his hand – the left one – on the back of Merlin’s neck, and pulling Merlin up with Arthur’s right arm around his waist.

The full body contact sets off another bout of that fluttery feeling in Merlin’s stomach, and yeah, if he had any doubt that Arthur likes him back, it’s gone now. Arthur kisses him as if he were dying, and Merlin’s mouth is the only thing that can save him. Merlin knows, because to him it feels much the same.

He wraps an arm around Arthur’s waist, and rests his other hand against Arthur’s chest, where he can feel his heart thumping.

“Does that mean you’ll do the ritual with me?” Merlin asks a while later when they break apart. At some point, Arthur’s pushed Merlin back against the table, and Merlin’s sat down on it, and spread his legs for Arthur to step in close.

Now, Arthur’s lips are swollen and red, his pupils dilated. Merlin’s made a mess of Arthur’s hair – Arthur’s been growing it out more in the last couple of months and it almost covers his ears now. Merlin likes it, which is why he just had to push a hand into it and mess it up a little.

“Yes,” Arthur replies. “I’ll do the ritual with you.”

A faint blush steals across his cheeks, and Merlin finds the look so utterly adorable that he’s lost for words for a moment.

“What is it?” he asks eventually.

“Is, uh,” Arthur starts, then clears his throat. “Is anyone going to be watching us?”

Merlin’s ears burn with embarrassment at the mere idea, and he shakes his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. We need to drive to a place a couple kilometres west of Camelot. There’s an old stone circle there. Finna said the Druids didn’t build it, but they’ve been using it for centuries as a sort of holy place for important rituals.”

Arthur nods along. “I know the place. Uther was never able to destroy it, no matter how many attacks he launched on it. I think eventually he just started to pretend it didn’t exist.”

“Mhm,” Merlin hums thoughtfully. “That’s where we should hold the ritual, Finna says.”

“Then we will,” Arthur says, and leans forward for another kiss that Merlin’s only too happy to give.

“What else?” Arthur’s voice is a little more breathless than before and all Merlin can come up with a for few moments is: _I did that, he’s flushed and relaxed and out of breath from kissing_ **_me_** _._

“Uh, runes,” Merlin says once his brain resumes semi-normal function. “I’ll have to paint some runes on both of us, and I need to repeat a spell a couple of times. And we, well…” he trails off, and makes a vague gesture with his hand before settling it back against Arthur’s chest again.

“We’ll have sex?” Arthur asks, again with that cheeky smile that’s going to be the death of Merlin.

“Yes,” Merlin says. His ears are hot, and probably bright red again, but Arthur’s at least not teasing him for it. “We’ll have sex.”

Arthur nods in understanding. “Anything specific?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No. As long as we both come it doesn’t matter how we get there.”

His voice doesn’t even sound weak when he says it, which Merlin counts as a win.

“Okay.” And then Arthur resumes kissing Merlin for some more time.

It was his idea not to take things further before the ritual, and while Arthur stands by the decision, especially after Merlin said that Finna had suggested a period of celibacy beforehand to increase the potency, it’s hard – no pun intended – not to just drag Merlin into bed and go about discovering every centimetre of his body.

But, somehow, they both resisted, and now they’re kneeling in the middle of the stone circle, dressed in nothing but pants. Merlin’s got a tub of paint sitting in front of him, and Arthur has already expressed his concern about toxicity.

“It’s made from clay,” Merlin says patiently. “Finna’s mixed it up for us, and Morgana promised that Finna knows what she’s doing. It’ll wash off easily once we’re done. Now hold still so I can get this right.”

Merlin coats his fingers liberally in the paint – mud, let’s be honest here – and touches it to Arthur’s chest.

He draws a vertical line above his heart, then adds a second and third line that grow out of the vertical line and describe an angle that’s opened upwards. The paint catches on Arthur’s chest hair, but Merlin doesn’t seem to be concerned about lines that aren’t perfectly straight.

“Ós,” Merlin says, still looking at the rune he painted. “It’s the divine power that guides us.”

Artwork by [whimsycatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher), rebloggable on [tumblr](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/165458922678).

On Arthur’s stomach, Merlin paints something similar to the first rune, but the two lines growing out of the base are straight.

“This is Feoh,” Merlin explains after he’s done. “It stands for _wealth_. Hold out your arms, please.”

Arthur does as he’s told, and then Merlin paints something that looks like an x with a pointy roof on top on his left forearm. Merlin says it’s called Éphel and is used to represent _land_.

“Will it work?” Arthur asks, staring at the rune painted on his prosthetic. “I mean, because my arm’s not real?”

Merlin starts as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. Maybe it hadn’t. After all, Merlin only knows Arthur like this.

“But it _is_ your arm,” Merlin says eventually. “It’s not flesh and blood, true, but it’s a part of you all the same. Given that the prophecy used this arm to identify you, I think it’d be hypocritical of them not to recognise it as part of you when we’re supposed to complete this ritual together, you know?”

Arthur huffs a laugh, because trust Merlin to get offended on his behalf when nothing’s even happened yet.

“You’re right,” Arthur agrees, and leans forward to seal it with a kiss.

They get distracted by that for a bit, but then Merlin gently pushes him away because there’s more work to be done, and they only have a limited amount of time to do it in.

On Arthur’s right arm, Merlin paints another vertical line, and tops it with what looks like a W. “Ear, for earth, so that not just our land, but the whole world will benefit from the ritual,” Merlin explains, then smiles at him. “Turn around, please.”

Arthur obeys without question, and then Merlin’s fingers are back on his skin. Now that he can’t see what Merlin’s painting, the sensation of his touch is amplified. It sends that same pleasant tingle down Arthur’s spine that often accompanies touching Merlin. He tries to concentrate on the lines Merlin’s painting, and he thinks it’s shaped like an angular, sideways S, but he can’t be sure.

“It’s called Sigel,” Merlin says a moment later, his left hand ghosting over Arthur’s skin near the scar on his left side. It had healed well enough, but it’s an ugly thing. Arthur hates to look at it, only because, in the beginning, it represented his failure to do his duty, and now it’s just another thing about him that’s, well, ugly.

“It represents the sun,” Merlin says, and Arthur has to blink a few times before remembering what Merlin’s talking about. Sigel, right. The rune on his back, and Merlin’s fingers near his scar.

There’s a pause in which neither of them says anything, even though it sounds as if Merlin _wants to._  Then Merlin lets go of Arthur, and when he still doesn’t say or do anything, Arthur looks over his shoulder to see what’s going on.

Merlin’s staring at Arthur arse, it would seem, with a blush on his cheeks, and Arthur can’t help the fond smile. “Anything you need me to do, Merlin?”

“Pants,” Merlin says simply, and Arthur doesn’t need to be able to read minds to know that they probably need to come off. As if to confirm, Merlin says: “They’ll only smudge the runes if you don’t take them off now.”

“I will if you will,” he say anyway, just to tease Merlin.

Merlin, despite going even redder in the face, hooks his fingers into the waistband and slides his pants off, leaving him completely naked while Arthur turns around to get a proper look.

He has to take a moment to appreciate all that skin on display. He’s seen Merlin mostly naked plenty of times now, and he’s already familiar with the sight of _his_ scars, and the ghastly tattoo and branding he received at Camelot. Arthur hates that Merlin had to go through any of that, and would gladly take his scars and marks upon himself, if only it would erase the bad memories for Merlin. However, Merlin’s still beautiful, and even though the marks remind Arthur of the terrible things that have been, they also are a sign of strength. Merlin survived all of this, and despite the odds, they found each other.

So, yes, Arthur knows most of Merlin’s “imperfections”. Being fully naked in the presence of the other, though, is new for them, and Arthur can’t help that his eyes are drawn to Merlin’s crotch. It’s not like this isn’t where this is going now anyway, he tells himself, and Merlin’s going to ogle him the same way as soon as Arthur’s got his own kit off – which he proceeds to do right away.

Merlin’s blush can’t go any deeper, but it’s spreading to his chest, and Arthur finds it so fetching that he just has to step close and kiss Merlin again. He keeps their bodies mostly apart but his left hand trails down Merlin’s arm to lace their fingers for just a moment.

“What’s next?” he asks quietly. The distance between their mouths is so short that his lips still catch on Merlin’s when he speaks.

“More bodypainting,” Merlin says shakily, and then slowly drops to his knees.

Arthur has a moment of panic in which he flashes back to scenes when the Devils forced innocent people – women and men alike – to their knees to take pleasure from them without consent, and Arthur’s about to protest and pull Merlin back up, when Merlin raises his face and smiles up at Arthur.

“This might tickle,” he warns, and then draws a rune on Arthur’s right thigh. It looks like a pointy P when it’s done, and before Merlin moves on to his left thigh, he looks back up at Arthur to explain.

“It’s called Wynn, and it means _joy_.” Merlin smiles, and Arthur knows why. They’re performing a ritual, and it might be a little awkward and embarrassing, but the act itself, the pleasure, should bring them joy. He understands the importance of it without Merlin needing to tell him.

On his left thigh, Merlin paints an X, and then says that its name is Gyfu, and that it translates to _gift_. As in, the gift they’re giving the earth. Makes sense.

Merlin taps Arthur’s side. “Turn around again.”

Arthur obeys, relieved that, for the moment, Merlin ignored Arthur’s erection.

It’s not like he can help being aroused. Merlin’s touching him with care, but firmly enough to be felt. For someone like Arthur, who hasn’t been touched much in his life until a year ago, it’s still a novelty that someone wants to touch him voluntarily.

Merlin paints two more runes, one on each back of a thigh: Nyd, for _need_ on the right, and Calc, the rune to symbolise a chalice or goblet, on the left.

All in all, Arthur can put together well enough that they’re all symbols that have something to do with life, giving life, and generally fertility, and where this life should spring from – all of which makes a lot of sense.

Clearing his throat, Merlin stands up again and walks around Arthur to stand in front of him. Arthur notes with satisfaction that Merlin’s half hard too. He resists the urge to lean in and touch Merlin more, and then the moment is lost when Merlin holds out the small bucket with the paint to Arthur.

“Think you can paint them on me?” he asks, voice betraying how shy he’s feeling about the request, even though he makes an effort to look Arthur in the eyes.

Arthur takes the bucket. “If you tell me what the one on my back looks like, sure.”

Merlin nods. “Start with the others. It’s more meaningful if you do it, Finna said, or else I’d do it myself.”

Arthur starts to paint Ós on Merlin’s chest, keeping his eyes on the task even though he’d like to watch Merlin’s face for a reaction. “I’m happy to do it,” he says, because it’s true. Any invitation to touch Merlin is welcome.

He gets distracted only once or twice as he works on Merlin’s runes. There’s that moment when he can’t help himself and has to place a kiss at crease of Merlin’s thigh where it meets his crotch. When he’s working on the back of Merlin’s thighs he had to stop so he could nip at the delicate skin of Merlin’s right buttock. The sounds that Merlin makes each time send a thrill through Arthur, and he has to fight to keep from rushing through the rest of the symbols, lest he messes them up.

Finally, they’re done, and Arthur sets down the bucket. The paint has dried, and is pulling on his skin, itching slightly in the sunlight, and Arthur’s eager to start so he can get lost in other sensations to drown out the discomfort.

Merlin takes him by the hand and leads him into the middle of the circle, where he’s laid out a complicated pattern on the ground, filled with more of the same runes they’re wearing now, and a few others.

In the middle, Merlin kneels down on the grass – a mark that Merlin’s been here before, if grass is growing – and pulls Arthur down with him.

“I’m assuming we’re starting the ritual now?” Arthur says, holding Merlin by the waist while Merlin keeps his hands on Arthur’s shoulders.

“Yes,” Merlin says, then bites his lip nervously.

“What?” Arthur asks, pulling the lip out from between teeth. “Don’t damage that, I want to be able to kiss you more.”

Merlin chuckles. “Prat,” he chides fondly, and Arthur grins in return. They never quite stopped with the insults, but they’re definitely more playful these days, and now, more than ever, ring with an unspoken possession. _My Prat_ , is what Merlin’s saying.

“I… this is the first time for me. Doing this. I mean, not just the sex magic ritual, because obviously that’s the first time, but I meant, erm, sex. In general. I’ve never. Before.”

He snaps his mouth shut, and doesn’t meet Arthur’s eyes, but Arthur won’t be deterred by that. Gently, he grabs Merlin’s chin and makes him look at him again.

“Neither have I,” he says. “There never was anyone I wanted to take to bed, until you.”

Merlin’s eyes go wide, and his mouth forms a silent _Oh_. While he suspected, and even though Gwen more or less confirmed it, he still hadn’t been sure.

Arthur lets go of his chin, and instead cradles the back of Merlin’s head in his hand. “How about we figure it out together?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, voice breathless. “Yeah, sounds good. I just need to say the spell now, and then again after, and everything else in-between is, er… freestyle.”

Arthur chuckles. “Alright. Go on, then. Anything I should do while you do magic?”

“Not distract me,” Merlin says immediately. “So, just… stay where you are and don’t move.”

From the way Merlin’s eyes widen when Arthur leans back to brace himself against the ground with his hands, Arthur figures that he’s got a lot more potential to distract Merlin than he’d realised.

“Okay,” he promises, and smirks.

Merlin swallows again, and finally tears his eyes away from Arthur’s torso, to look at the sky ahead.

He raises his hand, and then loudly, with a voice that sounds much deeper than Merlin’s normal cadence, starts to recite a spell.

Arthur doesn’t understand a word. It’s a language he’s not familiar with, and it sounds old and difficult.

When he hears the same string of words for the third time, he realises that Merlin keeps on repeating the spell and he wonders how many times he has to say it. Of course that’s when Merlin finally falls silent, so Arthur guesses three was the answer. It makes sense. From what he knows, three is an important number to the Druids.

Slowly, Merlin lowers his hands, and then he just kneels there, holding his arms awkwardly by his side, not really looking at Arthur.

Arthur sighs and decides to take matters into his own hands – both literally and figuratively.

He sits up straight and reaches for Merlin’s waist, shuffling closer until their knees are touching, and Arthur can lean in comfortably to kiss Merlin.

They’ve kissed a lot since that dinner, and so Arthur knows exactly how to coax Merlin into relaxing. It doesn’t take long at all until Merlin’s clutching at Arthur’s sides, and pushing their chests closer together.

It’s then that Arthur draws Merlin into his lap. Merlin comes willingly, spreading his thighs and settling down against Arthur. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and holds on while Arthur takes both of them into his left hand and strokes.

Merlin’s neck is right there in front of Arthur, and it’s the most logical conclusion in Arthur’s mind that he has to kiss it. He’s careful not to leave any marks, even as he scrapes his teeth over the sensitive skin. The idea of marking Merlin doesn’t do anything for Arthur, not after everything he’s seen, and the way others have been branded permanently, himself included.

No, he’d much rather know that Merlin stays with him willingly, comes back to him willingly. Arthur doesn’t need a visible mark on Merlin to know they belong together. He’s already got Merlin’s devotion, and Merlin’s got his.

Merlin rocks in Arthur’s lap, bringing his attention back to the, ah, task at hand. The drag of skin on skin adds just the right amount of friction to wrench a low moan from Arthur.

“Do we, hm, do we need to come on the ground or something?” Arthur remembers to ask. This is to fertilise the earth after all, isn’t it?

“No,” Merlin pants above him. “Everything we do inside this circle feeds into the spell.”

Arthur twists his hand around the heads of their cocks, and Merlin groans low in his throat, bucking his hips harder. “I’m clo-ooh.” Merlin gasps, and he’s spilling over Arthur’s hand before Arthur could’ve hoped to stop and prolong it.

Arthur leans forward to mouth at Merlin’s neck, running his right hand soothingly up and down Merlin’s back.

“You alright?” he asks once Merlin’s breathing has evened out again.

“Yeah,” Merlin says, smiling sheepishly. “Did you––?” He looks down at Arthur’s cock, still hard and the head shiny with precome. Merlin reaches for it, and Arthur doesn’t stop him.

Merlin’s hand’s warm and soft as it wraps around him, and Arthur lets his head fall forward, leaning his forehead against Merlin’s shoulder. He can’t take his eyes off Merlin’s hand around him, and it takes only a few strokes until Arthur, too, is coming with a strangled moan.

They lean against each other, Merlin’s arms wrapped around Arthur’s shoulders, and now that the other sensations are dying down, the warm tingle can be felt more distinctly again.

Arthur leans up to kiss Merlin softly. “Do you have to speak the spell right away, or can we rest and then do it all over again first?”

Merlin grins against Arthur’s mouth. “I think we owe it to Mother Gaia to give as much of ourselves to the magic as we can.”

“I think you’re right,” Arthur says, and grins into the next kiss.

Three days later, the sky darkens with heavy clouds.

The earth is still dry and the rain only just a certain promise, but already the scent of petrichor is saturating the air.

When, minutes later, the first drops fall, it’s as if every living thing exhales at once.

After twenty-two years, rain washes the land clean of its past, and new life emerges from the deep of the soil.

Magic is alive, and with it, Albion.

**Author's Note:**

> For notes, acknowledgements, and thanks yous, as well as bonus material, and additional/deleted scenes, check out the next parts in this series!
> 
> Pairings:  
> Freya/Sophia already established  
> Gwen/Percy to be established at the end
> 
> Warnings:
> 
>  **rape/non-con** \- doesn't apply to the tagged pairings, although some of the characters (especially female characters) have been abused in that way. No explicit descriptions.
> 
>  **underage rape/non-con** \- implied/referenced for several characters, especially girls, no graphic descriptions!
> 
>  **slavery/sexual slavery** \- characters are sold into slavery, Uther's wives are sexual slaves, references to other sexual slaves inside Camelot, no graphic descriptions of non-con scenes.
> 
>  **violence** \- almost all the characters experience physical and/or emotional violence in this story. Several characters also act violently towards other characters, more or less explicitly described.
> 
>  **ableism** \- physical or mental disabilies are looked down on, unless there's a way to "fix" them, i.e. a prosthetic limb.
> 
>  **forced pregnancy** \- several female characters are regularly raped, two of them become pregnant against their will, one of them is forced to carry to term by a third party after she was freed from Uther
> 
>  **minor character death** \- please contact me on [tumblr](http://momotastic27.tumblr.com/ask) or [DW](http://momo.dreamwidth.org) to find out which characters die, if you need to know in advance.
> 
>  **suicidal thoughts** \- several characters have had suicidal thoughts, no glorification of suicide!


End file.
